The Torches of Hecate
by fleurdelilies
Summary: Following the defeat of Voldemort, Andromeda Tonks seeks to put back together the broken remains of her disavowed family amidst the debris of reconstruction. Faced with rebuilding bridges long ago burnt, Andromeda relies not only on old Magic for strength - but also the memory of the man who'd inspired her to give it all up. Background Dramione. Pureblood-centric.
1. Chapter 1

Hello there, it's been a while since I wrote this first chapter. Thank you for the kind comments and feedback I received when I initially posted this, back in 2018. I return to this story with a second chapter already written and infinitely more spare time to work on Torches of Hecate and other stories (and my master's thesis, but who cares about that?). If you're new here, thank you for taking a chance on this story. If you've come across this before, thank you for your patience and giving this a second chance.

To real-person friends who read the many and varied drafts of this story, as well as serving as effective sounding boards and sources of infinite encouragement, my endless thanks. Also, I propose wine and a Jane Austen marathon whenever I finish this.

Before we continue, a disclaimer:

The Old Religion, or old ways, is a result of extensive internet research and heavily borrows from multiple pre-Christian traditions, including the Celts and the Greeks. Because I am aware of quite a few religious currents that celebrate some of the holidays mentioned in the story, please contact me if you are offended by my depiction or can provide further (and more accurate and firsthand) information.

As always, the following is a work of fiction based on J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter universe. Everything else in the story is of my own imagination.

* * *

 **Excerpts from** ** _Unearthing Our Spiritual Past: Historical Research Into Pre-Christian Wizarding Beliefs_** **by Millicent Bulstrode (2007).**

The Old Religion, or the "old ways" as fervent believers are wont to whisper breathy tones, is really an amalgamation of beliefs and traditions with a history as old and as complicated as the British Isles themselves. Born in Ancient Greece and spread through conquest and migration, the Old Religion practiced in the United Kingdom and Ireland borrows heavily from Roman and Hellenistic traditions and Celtic folklore ("Introduction", p. 1).

Unlike the organized and standardized doctrines that Muggles practice, there is no central dogma or scripture to help indoctrinate new believers into the Old Religion. Most initiates are simply born into the faith and taught by their elder members of their practicing families. For those few who are proselytized or attempt to convert without guidance, little to no texts exist as a resource: most traditions and rituals are preserved through family lore and oral history. Though some modern texts have previously claimed to expose the secrets of the Old Religion, these are either scandalously altered for the sake of furthering certain political bents [the author would like to note that more than a few "seminole" texts were published on the eve of crucial Wizengamot votes] or utilized as a poorly-disguised vessel for slanderous gossip [see Rita Skeeter's 1987 exposé _Bathing in the Moonlight and Other Naughty Noble Stories_ ]. ("Faith Without Guidelines", p. 19).

Those in possession of ancient manuscripts have zealously guarded them for centuries, not only because of their priceless nature, but also due to the memory of thousands of texts lost to the bonfires of the witch hunts. For the first time in modern history, the wards on these Most Ancient and Noble family libraries have been metaphorically lifted. For the purpose of this research, sponsored by _L'École magique des sciences sociales de Paris_ , the author was granted access to multiple previously-unseen manuscripts dating back to the Roman conquest. In conjunction with interviewing longtime practitioners, this research aims to demystify the beliefs and practices of the Old Religion in order to lend a better understanding to the spiritual fundamentals of wizarding society ("Faith Without Guidelines", p. 21).

* * *

 **Tonks Residence, Oxfordshire**

 ** _Beltane,_** **May 1, 1999**

The steady warmth emanating from Andromeda's crackling fireplace was a far cry from the raging Beltane bonfires of her youth.

Fascinated by the cheerful dance of flickering flames, little Teddy rapidly toddled over to the sooty hearth as fast as his chubby legs could take him—only to be abruptly stopped by the magical barrier his grandmother had the foresight to put in place. Plopping unto his bottom, the little boy scrunched his button nose in surprise. In the blink of an eye, his nut-brown curls brightened to an unnatural shade of orange, undulating vertically atop his head.

"Oh, Teddy darling," sighed Andromeda Tonks, but she was too busy levitating large serving dishes to pick the boy up. "Harry, could you please strap him into the high chair?"

Teddy gurgled and tugged at luminescent hair, delighted by the turn of events.

Andromeda's maternal heart constricted at the sound. Despite all that had elapsed over the past few years, her grandson was a _happy_ baby, so achingly reminiscent of her Dora as an infant. Just a year old, Teddy's cheeky laugh and dimpled smile were already his most prominent Tonks features.

"I've never even heard of Beltane before, Mrs Tonks," revealed Harry, scooping up his impish godson with capable arms and settling Teddy on his hip. "Even 'Mione couldn't tell me much about it."

This change of perspective quite suited Teddy, who immediately began pulling at the buttons on Harry's corduroy jacket. Though Andromeda eyed the worn outer garment critically, she bit her tongue.

In the year following the Battle at Hogwarts, she'd grown fond of the Potter boy. She even came to regard him as something like a nephew; they were, after all, technically related by way of his paternal grandmother. Out of respect for Harry, Andromeda would never harangue the unassuming boy into buying some decent new clothes.

Oh, but sometimes she _desperately_ wanted to—especially when he insisted on wearing oversized hand-me-down Muggle clothing. It wasn't as if Harry could not afford anything nicer.

Born into a societal class clinging on to their last shreds of old grandeur, Andromeda had grown up hearing about the fortune tucked away inside the Potter vaults. The estate had only doubled in size with the tidy sum Charlus Potter inherited from his Uncle Fleamont. Not that any decent pure-blood witch would sully their bloodline for ghastly merchant money, but envious whispers acknowledged it was a substantial amount of galleons—potentially enough to rival the Malfoy fortune.

Certainly, Andromeda thought, Harry's inheritance should have been enough for him to purchase clothing without any previous and there, she decided to gift him a dragon-hide jacket for his upcoming birthday. Circe knows Sirius would have approved.

"Well, you've always been at Hogwarts for it," replied Andromeda, putting the finishing touches on a table piled with enough food to put even Molly Weasley to shame. It was an extravagance for her usually middle-class budget, but Andromeda knew she would send Harry away with enough leftovers to feed him and the Granger girl for at least two weeks.

"But Dumbledore never celebrated it at Hogwarts—"

"Headmaster Dumbledore, may he rest in peace, was never quite keen on our old ways," interrupted Andromeda, quick to nip any Dumbledore talk in the bud.

Although she'd never faltered in her allegiance to her daughter and, by extension, the Order of the Phoenix, Andromeda's upbringing made her wary of the hero-worship surrounding the late headmaster. Brilliant wizard the man had been, but always so distrustful of any deep-rooted traditions that would undermine his own vision for a progressive wizarding society.

"Originally, we shared some of these beliefs with Muggles," she explained gently, remembering when it had been Dora on the receiving end of the tale. "But then time passed, and the world changed, and eventually most wizarding families adopted newer Muggle customs. By the time I was a little girl, the only ones to practice the old rites were the pure-bloods."

Harry eyed the fireplace warily, a slight frown pulling at his mouth. "So is Beltane… Dark?"

Andromeda sighed, slightly exasperated. There was not much to recommend her upbringing, since the Blacks were known for their less-than-stellar parenting. However, Andromeda could admit that her family had been much more comprehensive on teaching the nature of Magic. Certainly far more instructive than any professor ever hired by Albus Dumbledore—barring her own son-in-law, of course.

"Of course not," Andromeda explained, careful to avoid condescension. "Beltane goes back to the days of primitive Magic, before our kind developed ways to use it for harm. It's meant to be a happy time, for celebrating life and youth and new beginnings."

With a flick of her wand, a floral arrangement of primrose blooms, rowan berries, and hawthorn branches daintily settled itself above the doorway. "It isn't much, but this will have to do," she declared, speaking more to herself than her guest.

Harry looked thoughtful. "Did you celebrate every year with your family? With Tonks and, er, Mr Tonks?"

"Well, we did, or at least Ted and I tried to…" Andromeda trailed off. Over a year after her husband's death, a dull pain blossomed inside her chest, reawakening like an old injury. Even Teddy's sunshine could not soothe the gaping wound that had been carved out by the loss of their family. Its constant presence was reassuring, a faithful reminder that they had been happy and whole once.

"Last year's festivities were interrupted, for obvious reasons," Andromeda continued, angry steel hardening her words.

The previous May, the Tonks' meagre Beltane celebrations had ground to a halt as a silvery hyena bounded into her living room, the Patronus effectively silencing all dinner conversation. Newborn Teddy had been delighted at its appearance, his chubby fingers reaching for the luminous wisps of magic.

Remus was the first to answer Fred Weasley's call to arms, despite all attempts to discourage him from charging into battle after weeks of malnourishment and fatigue. With the full moon only ten days away, it was a risk for even a talented dueller like Andromeda's son-in-law.

Their newborn son coddled in her arms, Dora looked torn between asking Remus to stay or charging into battle with him. But the hard-headed werewolf would not be dissuaded from joining the fight, even as Dora whispered urgently into his ear and baby Teddy whimpered at the sound of their quiet argument. Sombre expression starkly pale against her pink hair, Dora reluctantly gave Remus her blessing to leave. " _If you need help, call for me and I will come to you,"_ she murmured within his embrace.

In retrospect, Andromeda knew that to be the moment she lost her daughter. As a mother, she should have realized that her impetuous Nymphadora—her brave little girl who earned her scars fearlessly fighting bullies on the playground—would not be content to wait and sit quietly while her husband risked his life.

By midnight, Dora's patience had reached a breaking point.

In the months following the battle, whenever she closed her eyes to sleep, Andromeda could still see herself arguing, imploring, even _begging_ her headstrong daughter to stay. Nightly, those visions held her hostage. And every night, without fail, Dora cuddled and kissed her infant son goodbye, the optimism in her voice faltering ever so slightly.

 _'_ _"Take care of him until I return,'"_ Dora instructed, her eyes blazing with determination, before wrapping her slender arms around Andromeda tightly. " _Love you, Mum."_

Just before the valerian tonic finally kicks in, Andromeda's last recollection is the strength of Dora's final, fierce embrace before disappearing from their lives with a sharp _crack._

A year after that fateful night, Teddy's whimpers brought her back from the swirl of memories. The little boy cried for his grandmother to take him from Harry's arms, "Nana!" His young godfather had fallen silent, most likely submerged in his own recollections of the previous May.

Harry had become withdrawn in the weeks approaching the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, preferring the quiet solitude of Grimmauld Place to the overwhelming grief that hung heavy over the Burrow. To lift his spirits, Andromeda had invited Harry to celebrate with her and Teddy.

With the looming prospect of a highly-publicized memorial at Hogwarts, Harry had been roped into the role of honoured guest by the imposing Augusta Longbottom. Following the end of the war, Mrs Longbottom established herself as Chairwoman of the Ladies' Society Fundraising Committee for the Hogwarts Reparations Trust. Wielding her family influence and formidable headwear, Madame Longbottom had selected a motley party of reputable witches to aid her efforts—including Mrs Andromeda Tonks (née Black).

The Fundraising Committee had planned a large and lengthy event filled with speeches to commemorate the dead from both wars, as well as enough food to feed both attendees and Hogwarts staff and students. To his chagrin, Harry was scheduled to give a speech—an error from which Andromeda was unable to dissuade the committee—as well as unveil a large memorial plaque at the entrance of the Great Hall.

To atone for the massive, public, and most likely overwhelming event Harry would suffer through, Andromeda had planned Beltane as a private time for them to mourn the past—all the while embracing new beginnings.

After all, Beltane was about youth, fresh life, and _rebirth_.

Taking her whimpering grandson from Harry's arms, Andromeda strapped a gurgling Teddy into his high chair, leftover from Dora's infancy. Fixing Teddy a plate of mushy foods, easy on his sensitive baby gums, she also handed Harry a plate of his own in the process: "Here, help yourself to anything you'd like."

The boy gratefully heaped mounds of succulent roast chicken, tender carrots and peas, and fluffy mashed potatoes. Not exactly a traditional Beltane spread of fruit and wine, but Andromeda supposed it would have to do.

While Harry wolfed down her cooking, Andromeda spoon-fed Teddy mashed potatoes that he diligently spat out on to his high chair and smeared on his face. Occasionally, she would spare a glance at the young boy—no, young _man_ —who sat at her dinner table.

Despite having met James Potter only once in his youth, there was no mistaking the uncanny physical resemblance between father and son. Same handsome thin face, dishevelled midnight hair, and lanky-muscled frame.

However, to her eye, it was Remus Lupin's influence that became the most apparent to Andromeda. Upon meeting the Boy-Who-Lived, she had recognized the same starved look in his eyes: a hunger for family, friends, and unconditional love. Unbeknownst to Harry, who'd attempted to hide embarrassed tears upon first meeting his godson, Andromeda had looked at the Potter boy with quiet approval.

In Harry, she identified the quiet strength she had come to appreciate in Remus—sincere humility, awkward charm, and unwavering dedication. As much as Andromeda had enjoyed meeting young James, whose mischief had rivalled and complemented that of her cousin Sirius, it was these humble qualities that made Harry all the dearer to her.

And, more than anyone else in Andromeda's life, Harry understood the importance of family above all.

"Have you heard anything from the Malfoys recently?" she inquired politely, during a lull of conversation in the meal.

Andromeda used a cloth napkin to wipe away a smear of mushy peas from Teddy's cheek, since the toddler had yet to master hand-to-mouth coordination.

Once Harry paused and swallowed a forkful of flavourful roast, he shook his head apologetically. "Malfoy's still being monitored as far as I know, but Mrs Malfoy hasn't been seen or heard from in a while. I'd say she left for the continent like many of the others, but well…" he hesitated, green eyes pausing on Teddy.

"You doubt she'd leave Draco?" Andromeda asked frankly.

"Very doubtful," agreed Harry.

Cissa's loyalty to her son was infamous, to say the least. Though Andromeda felt she'd failed as an elder sister on many counts, Cissa's fierce love for her child was one trait to be proud of.

"Well, you're right of course," she replied, setting aside Teddy's finished dinner. He'd done enough fingerpainting for the night.

With a flick of her wand, she summoned an envelope which soared into her hands from a bookshelf. On the back was a broken wax seal, emerald green inlaid with the Malfoy family crest.

"This arrived with the morning owl," Andromeda informed him. "Narcissa… Well, my sister says she would like to see me."

She extended the letter for Harry's perusal, knowing it contained no sensitive information—the Black family was careful to treated all correspondence as potential blackmail. It was a concise missive, a courteous but stiff invitation to Narcissa's new residence, presumably still within Britain. An address would be provided upon RSVP.

Although Andromeda had checked for any Dark magic on her own, Harry still performed a few simple detection charms he'd learned during Auror training. Pale swirls of magic misting peacefully over the parchment, the letter gave no sign of being a curse, a trick, or a trap.

"It appears to be clean," he declared, scanning the contents.

"I thought so too," she agreed, and Teddy burped in chorus. "It doesn't seem forged either."

Returning the letter to its intended recipient, Harry leaned over to pick up Teddy, who had speedily crawled over to his favourite visitor once released from the abhorred high chair.

"Would you consider seeing Mrs Malfoy?" he asked carefully.

Before losing both daughter and husband in less than a year, Andromeda would have never even considered acknowledging such an intrusive question—let alone from a young man whose connections to the Black family were tangential at best.

Andromeda Black's strained relationship with her family was a subject those closest to her had learned not to broach. Even Ted, who had always carried some guilt over what his wife had chosen to sacrifice, rarely found Andromeda willing to discuss her feelings on the matter. And Ted had been her best friend, whose absence she still felt every day of her life.

But the Potter boy, _Harry_ , had become something of an exception in Andromeda's lonely new life—a special case, if you will. Not only had she had come to rely on Harry for help with raising a rambunctious Teddy, but Harry had also been the sole witness to a significant moment between the two remaining Black sisters.

Simply put, Andromeda did not know what possessed her to go to the Malfoy trial.

One of the most publicized events of the year, the wizarding public was almost bloodthirsty in its desire to witness the fall of one of its most revered families. With the Dementor's Kiss barred as a possible sentence, the crowds gathered outside the courtroom demanded _'Life! Life! Life!'_ as the Malfoys entered the courtroom to face justice.

The trial was nothing short of mayhem.

In that foreboding tribunal chamber located within the bowels of the Ministry, the victims of Lucius Malfoy and his cronies called for his incarceration as the prosecution rolled out an unfathomably long list of crimes. Widows, orphans, and bereaved friends and relatives testified to the depravities of the Dark Lord and his faithful followers. The Wizengamot would then determine in which of those offences had Lucius and his son been involved.

Unfortunately for them, the Malfoy men were tried simultaneously rather than as separate cases for expediency's sake (a decision the Granger girl had unsuccessfully protested in court, alleging a violation of due process). The final effect was disconcerting.

Unlike the raving Lestrange brothers who preceded them, father and son stood stony—faces marble-white yet unflinching as allegations were hurled at them. Their Malfoy glamour had lost its characteristic sheen: expressions drawn and pale, platinum hair white and dull, and quicksilver eyes shuttered against the prying gaze of the Wizengamot.

As regal as a painted Madonna, Narcissa sat with the public, surrounded by Aurors to separate her from the masses clamouring for restitution, directly across from Andromeda. Following the revelation of her role in the Boy-Who-Lived's survival and triumph, Narcissa Malfoy had become a polarizing public figure, redeemed and mistrusted in equal measure. Though Mrs Malfoy appeared to be unshaken by proceedings, Andromeda watched the intensity in her sister's dark gaze, never straying far from her only child.

Utter silence descended when Harry took the stand, testifying in favour of Narcissa and her son. Despite Narcissa not being on trial, his defence of the mother was impassioned, recalling that without her intervention he would not have been able to defeat Voldemort. To the audience's discomfort, he reminded them that Narcissa Malfoy's love for her son had been a direct catalyst for the victory over Voldemort.

Draco Malfoy, Harry argued, was a pawn in the game of men far more powerful, cunning, and mercenary than him. The Malfoy heir was a disposable player in the plans of You-Know-Who. Even Dumbledore realized that Draco had only been set up for failure—Draco had never fought to win the war, only survive it.

On Lucius' behalf, Harry spoke sparsely and straightforwardly. Although his house and Gringotts account had been at You-Know-Who's disposal, toward the end Lucius was rarely an active participant in Voldemort's schemes. The man's fall from grace after the attack on the Ministry had rendered him inconsequential in the eyes of the Dark Lord. Ultimately, Lucius Malfoy was a self-serving coward who had renounced Voldemort while he was still alive, in order to search for his only son (although just prior to Voldemort's defeat, as any self-respecting Slytherin would).

It was a powerful, memorable testimony that would eventually spare the Malfoys, whose last-minute switch in alliances had indebted Harry to them. It was also, Andromeda knew, not a testimony entirely of Harry's crafting. His friend Hermione, incensed by the Wizengamot's dismissal of her objection to group trials, had coached Harry relentlessly and now sat fuming in the seats reserved for the public.

Whilst the members of the Wizengamot deliberated in tense murmurs, the media, the accused, and the witnesses sat with bated breath. With her sister still seated beside the Malfoy solicitor, only Andromeda noticed how Cissa held herself absolutely rigid, lily-white hands clasped in the folds of her silk robes. Her lips moved minimally but rapidly, as if she was whispering to herself.

Andromeda knew better—her sister was praying to Her.

In the end, it was the testimony of another Hogwarts student, Terry Boot, that played a deciding factor in Draco's sentencing. Although the Death Eaters' spawn were expected to partake in the Carrows' punishments, no students punished by Draco ever experienced anything more severe than a sharp Stinging Hex. Most often, like Boot himself, they were subject to a mildly disfiguring jinx before being summarily sent on their way and instructed to keep quiet. The pattern only became apparent after Dumbledore's Army—Andromeda internally snorted at Harry's chosen name for his own loyal followers—compared notes.

The Wizengamot came to a decision: no Kiss for either man, but five years of probation for Draco and a ten year Azkaban sentence for Lucius, contingent upon his cooperation in testifying against his fellow Death Eaters. Draco would be required to return to Hogwarts to finish his schooling and help with the reconstruction efforts. [1]

Bedlam ensued in the courtroom as photographers and journalists alike erupted into a flurry of flashes and scribbling Quick-Quotes Quills. The Acting Chief Warlock, Griselda Marchbanks, was forced to call for order since the next defendant, Mulciber, was still awaiting trial.

The next morning, the front page of the Daily Prophet was emblazoned with a picture of Malfoy Sr.'s brief whispered goodbye to his wife and son before being whisked away into custody. It was then, right before the Aurors came to escort mother and son from the room, that Andromeda finally made eye contact with her sister.

What struck her the most was not the sheer vulnerability in Cissa's eyes (already disturbing enough in her usually glacial sister), but the split second it took for her sister to recognize her.

All of a sudden, the years of distance and silence between them had never felt as real and as tangible. Despite being sisters, born of the same womb and to the same House, Andromeda felt as if their separation had rendered Cissa a stranger.

The gaping vacuum inside her chest created by her family's deaths, which left her without breath at the most inopportune moments, immediately expanded as Andromeda realized the true scope of her own loss. Since her marriage, Andromeda had never felt faint, but for a split second, she was seventeen again and struggling to breathe.

Not only had she lost the dead, she'd also lost the living.

Andromeda did not even notice that she was swaying on her feet until she felt the warm, steadying hand of the Potter boy on her shoulder. And so to Harry, and only Harry, would Andromeda ever consider giving the answer to such a personal question.

"Yes," she replied resolutely, heart softening as she looked at Teddy in Harry's arms.

Harry nodded. "Then whatever you need, you can count on me, Mrs Tonks."

* * *

 **Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London**

 **New Moon, July 3, 1970**

"Andromeda, _must_ you be so rude to Rabastan Lestrange?" demanded an exasperated Aunt Walburga, sweeping into the drawing room in a swirl of velvet robes, with all the airs of an injured countess. For reasons unknown to Andromeda, her aunt unfailingly wore dark velvet to each Deipnon dinner, even in that summer's unseasonable heat.

"Andromeda darling, sarcasm is just so unbecoming in a young lady," Grandmother Irma Black helpfully chimed in, already seated in her usual armchair by the fireplace. The night was too warm for a fire, but Aunt Walburga always insisted on being contradictory. "In my day, Amelia Greengrass' entire engagement was called off because she was uncouth enough to attempt a _joke_ at dinner."

Aunt Cassie, Irma's sister-in-law, snorted in derision: "That wasn't because of a joke. It was because Amelia Greengrass was caught in a broom closet with her legs around a half-blood and her knickers around her ankles."

Grandmother Irma's pale thin cheeks flushed in distaste, and Aunt Cassie crowed mockingly: "Why Irma, is your memory failing already?"

Seventeen-year-old Andromeda Black hid an unladylike snort from her viperous elders, knowing that her mother would not shield her from Walburga if things got nasty—and they so often did, whenever the entirety of the Black clan descended upon Grimmauld Place.

After a particularly excruciating Deipnon dinner, one of the few times so many Blacks could be persuaded to convene in Aunt Walburga's ridiculous townhouse fortress, the ladies and gentlemen of the party had retired to separate rooms. In Uncle Orion's private study on the third floor, the men were off to puff on imported cigars and gamble away Galleons that only wizards of their standing could afford to spare.

Other pure-blood families were more modern, like Andromeda's Rosier cousins, who retired together for drinks in their library, but the Black witches were sticklers for tradition.

In the opulent second-floor drawing room, the ladies gathered for coffee, digestifs, and scathing gossip. The most recent subject of interest was the Lestrange men, the family of Bella's abhorrent new fiancé. Ever since Father and Mother had formally announced Bella's betrothal at the previous Beltane, the Lestranges—specifically Rabastan—had been simply _impossible_ to escape. The ink had barely dried on Bellatrix's engagement contract before Rodolphus' younger brother had unsubtly begun to drop his own heavy hints towards Andromeda.

Purposefully seated beside her during dinner, Rabastan had immediately attempted to ensnare Andromeda for every social event of the upcoming season. Under the watchful gaze of her delightful family, she'd successfully parried every invitation with a myriad of excuses before he tried to secure her as his date for the Malfoys' Yule Ball. She'd been unable to conjure up an excuse for an event so far in the future (it was still only July, for Circe's sake) but Andromeda was saved by the scraping of chairs as Uncle Orion hastily adjourned the dinner party.

Before Rabastan could continue to harangue her, Andromeda politely excused herself and scurried away to the drawing room. Pure-blood witches should never run, but that night Andromeda came suspiciously close.

"Andromeda, _look at me when I am addressing you,"_ commanded Aunt Walburga imperiously from the chintz loveseat.

Seated across from Walburga, Mother shot her sister-in-law a sharp look. Though Mother would never admit so, Andromeda suspected she found Aunt Walburga's manners to be lacking—and Druella Black prided herself on immaculate deportment. Proper witches did not rely to the overbearing mannerisms Aunt Walburga was known for, and Mother instead advocated for a more subtle art of feminine warfare.

"What did I do wrong, Aunt Walburga?" Andromeda sighed quietly, dangerously verging on insolent. "He asked me if I was interested in attending the theatre with him and I answered honestly."

"You asked if he had tickets for separate boxes," Cissa reminded her primly under her breath, as if Andromeda would soon forget Rabastan's bewildered expression.

"Aunt Walburga, why won't you believe me if I say that I _honestly_ believe the theatre is best enjoyed when you eliminate all possible distractions?" countered Andromeda, as cautiously as she could manage. Although it was amusing to frustrate her aunt, Walburga was known for her volatile temper and predilection for unpleasant hexes.

Aunt Cassie smirked mischievously, already sipping on her second digestif. "And young men can be such a distraction, can't they darling?"

Playing with the fine beading on her new robes, Andromeda pointedly ignored Cissa's knowing smile. Rabastan Lestrange _was_ distracting, to the point where Andromeda had considered a Silencing Charm to safeguard her sanity.

Just turned fifteen, Cissa had finally been deemed old enough to partake in these post-dinner conversations, instead of being sent home for bed. Andromeda's younger sister took to gossip and scheming with the type of aplomb that she herself would have to fake all her life. Even Bella despised these affairs, despite being Walburga's beloved goddaughter.

"Rabastan is very handsome though," whispered Cissa beside her, careful to not be overheard. "Certainly much nicer-looking than the boys in my year."

Breathtakingly lovely since birth, Cissa had just begun to receive her own formal offers for courtship from some of Britain's finest families. Quietly, Andromeda suspected Cissa was waiting for a specific offer, from a certain scion from a certain prominent House, known for siring blonde sons with pointy faces.

"Rabastan would make a fine husband for you, Andromeda. Wouldn't he, Druella?" declared Aunt Walburga, who considered herself an authority on all subjects pertaining to the Black family. Her husband, Andromeda's Uncle Orion, was set to be the next Black family patriarch. As such, Walburga believed herself to be closer to divinity each day, as long as Patriarch Arcturus would hurry up and bite the dust already.

" _Ha!_ " snorted Violetta Black, Andromeda's great-grandmother, breaking her silence from her own spot beside the fireplace.

Born a Bulstrode witch, the true family Matriarch was a wizened crone almost as ancient as the odious tapestry that hung in the room. Perpetually draped in swaths of black lace since her husband's death thirty years prior, Violetta resembled a very blind, very frilly bat as she scrutinized Andromeda through her golden monocle.

"This girl of yours is much smarter than your first one, Druella," she croaked approvingly with a pointed glance at Bellatrix, who was silently glowering beside the open window. "You may be quick to forget, but I remember Corvus Lestrange before all that little _unpleasantness_ happened. This branch of the family isn't so distantly related to them as you'd like to believe, Walburga." [2]

Among pure-blood society, phrases such as 'the unpleasantness' or 'the little trouble' were nearly always utilized as euphemisms for incest, murder, or Muggles (or some lurid combination of the three). In this case, Andromeda had interacted enough with the Lestranges to know that was a stone best left unturned.

Violetta's daughter, Aunt Cassie, made no attempt to hide her sharp laugh. " _No one_ in pure-blood Britain is distantly related, Mummy-dearest. That's why it's better to live on the continent than start marrying cousins."

"How can you think so, when you've never been married at all?" rallied Irma, in quick defence of her daughter Walburga's marriage.

Cassiopeia Black, technically Andromeda's great-aunt, was the spinster of her generation—a fact which Grandmother Irma would always lord over her, despite Aunt Cassie's complete disregard for matrimony.

After the defeat of Grindelwald (and a society scandal that meant she never spoke to her father again), she'd absconded to France to live out her days in a sumptuous pied-à-terre as an independently wealthy lady of leisure. Retaining her dark good looks even at an advanced age, Aunt Cassie's rare visits to Britain were often solely intended to scandalize her family—arriving in a flurry of luxurious perfume, sensuous silk, and unabashed hedonism. [3]

And while Grandmother Irma might have relished in Aunt Cassie's unmarried state, Andromeda had long suspected her great-aunt never wanted for company in her Parisian flat.

Ignoring her daughter and daughter-in-law's petty jabs at each other, Great-grandmother Violetta forged on. Borderline incest, after all, was just one of the many dubious ways the wizarding elite of Britain had forged their Most Ancient and Noble Houses and kept themselves pure for generations. After centuries, quibbling about it was simply a moot point.

"The Lestranges have already witnessed the collapse of one of their lines, only She knows if they have it in them to continue this one. Tell me, girl, did your father ascertain that _everything_ would be in order when the time comes?" Violetta asked, peering inquisitively at Bellatrix, her suggestive meaning clear to everyone in the room.

Bella's visage whitened before turning a peculiar shade of grey, hand fisting in the pocket of her dress that Andromeda knew concealed her wand. Father had refused to buy Bella a wand holster for her birthday, leaving Bella to accidentally singe the inner lining of all her formal robes.

Knowing Bella's quick temper was often her downfall, Mother hastened to address her grandmother-in-law's concerns as tactfully as her Rosier manners would allow. "Madame, I assure you Cygnus would never sign a contract if all wasn't perfectly in—"

"I don't know, Mummy dearest," cut in Aunt Cassie with just a hint of bite, slate grey eyes dancing merrily. "Such _ladylike hands_ those boys had. I've never seen such delicate fingers."

"Let's hope Rodolphus' appendages aren't all delicate!" snickered the old woman, mother and daughter sharing a good joke at Bellatrix's expense.

Scrambling for self-control, Andromeda fought the insane urge to laugh by biting the inside of her cheek and clenching her hands into the folds of her dress. Though Cissa remained impassive as always, Andromeda heard the tiniest exhale of amusement.

The eldest Black sister, always at odds with the crotchety Matriarch, shot them a look of injured betrayal, as if she hadn't laughed at Andromeda's expense a million times before. Though Bella wouldn't dare retaliate under their great-grandmother's eye, something in her expression promised vengeance. Ever since childhood, Bella had made sure to toe the line under the adults' noses and unleash demons behind their backs.

Experience made Andromeda take note—she would need to ward her room that night, to protect her from one of Bella's signature nasty little hexes.

" _Madame!_ " hissed a scandalized Grandmother Irma, her prim features pinched in dismay. "There is nothing wrong with their fingers, they're perfectly formed. Just the right size."

As this set off another round of laughter, leaving Grandmother Irma looked vaguely perplexed and insulted.

According to Aunt Cassie after a few drinks, Irma Crabbe had once been a great society beauty—considered by all wizards as the catch of the season. However, a visibly unhappy marriage had set unkind tongues wagging, with pure-blood society suggesting that Irma's naive conservative tendencies had driven her philandering husband, Grandfather Pollux, to find his entertainment elsewhere. [4]

However, since Aunt Cassie rarely interacted with her family entirely sober, Andromeda could not confidently ascertain the veracity of this last bit of gossip. Cissa's delicate inquiry the following morning had been met with a mysterious smile.

"You know what they say about _hands_ , girl," leered Violetta, who greatly enjoyed needling her prudish daughter-in-law. "They match the—"

"I think that's quite enough, Aunt Violetta," intervened Lucretia Prewett (née Black), who'd sat quietly amused for most of the conversation. "Andromeda and Narcissa are still schoolgirls and Narcissa is only fifteen."

The stylish Lucretia was Andromeda's favourite aunt, even though she was technically her cousin some many times removed.

Although Mrs Prewett also lived in London with her attractive husband, she rarely made appearances at her brother Orion's dinners. Her official excuse was that poor Ignatius' asthma could not bear the stuffy air inside of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Unofficially, most Blacks knew that it was due to Lucretia's poorly concealed loathing of her sister-in-law.

"Everyone knew what _you_ were doing at fifteen, Lucretia," snarked Walburga, who thought Lucretia was a bit presumptuous, acting and dressing too young for her years.

Personally, Andromeda believed she was simply jealous.

While Aunt Walburga insisted on wearing the ostentatious dark robes of her youth, Lucretia swanned about in the colourful gauzy robes recently popularized by the songstress Celestina Warbeck. The whole effect was that, although Lucretia was a few years older than Walburga, she looked almost entirely two decades younger.

Additionally, the recent discovery that Great-aunt Cassie had also adopted the new lightweight styles (with a décolletage that plunged even more dangerously than Lucretia's) only added insult to injury.

"It may come as a surprise to you, dearest Wally," retorted Aunt Lucretia, unintimidated by her cousin and sister-in-law. "But school is primarily intended for learning, not for scheming to steal our best friend's beau."

As the vein in Walburga's forehead bulged, Andromeda discreetly turned away and stared down a rather gaudy arrangement of hothouse flowers, tucked amongst the potentially lethal knick-knacks of Grimmauld Place. She could not risk making eye contact with Cissa.

Even Mother, who always tried to appease her tempestuous sister-in-law, had to lightly press dainty fingertips against her lips to control a smile that verged on peeking through her stately demeanour.

For anybody fool enough to make the Black family's acquaintance, the assiduously disseminated family legend was that Walburga and Orion had been destined for each other since birth. There was simply no match with a more illustrious heritage and a higher pedigree in all of wizarding Britain.

Off the record, on a shopping excursion to her aunt's preferred Parisian atelier, Lucretia had once revealed to Andromeda that Walburga had pursued Orion relentlessly after discovering his liaison with one of her best friends—and also her biggest rival. Walburga could not stand someone having something over her.

 _'_ _She's always been greedy,'_ Lucretia had remarked disparagingly at a particularly awful Deipnon dinner last winter, careful to not be overheard. Aunt Walburga was not above using her little house-elf as a spy.

"The Lestranges are a fine family for any of our girls to marry into," said Mother, in an attempt to redirect the conversation back to the original subject, used to de-escalating family squabbles. Considering the clan of impetuous and headstrong Blacks she'd married into, the graceful Druella Rosier had become adept at keeping storms at bay. "We already have the Patriarch's approval."

"Arcturus is a _fool_ , a damned fool who only cares about that ridiculous pamphlet," declared Violetta contemptuously, referring to her nephew—a foreboding man who abided by Cantankerous Nott's _Pure-Blood Directory_ almost religiously. Both he and his wife Melania had 'regretfully' declined their invitation to dinner.

Considering that Great-uncle Arcturus was an ageing curmudgeon who rarely left the confines of the old Black family estate, Andromeda found it hard to believe he was also Aunt Lucretia's father.

"When it comes down to it, the Lestranges don't follow the Old Ways," Violetta continued darkly. "And you girls, don't let these silly fools convince you otherwise: heathenism is much more unfortunate than a Squib or two in the family line. At least _those_ can be dealt with appropriately."

If Aunt Walburga had been able to _Avada_ her own grandmother, Andromeda was certain she would have done it without a second thought. As it was, most of the ladies in the room looked mildly uncomfortable with such an unwitting declaration of tolerance (or nonchalant acceptance of murder)—but all appeared unwilling to contradict the Matriarch.

For as long as Andromeda had been alive, the Black witches had been tip-toeing around her great-grandmother in hopes of staying in her favour (and in her will). After all, the old bat was said to have a collection of trinkets that rivalled the even the Selwyn family jewels.

"Nobody believes in that dragonshite anymore," retorted Bella, who couldn't give a damn about glittering diamonds unless they were cursed. At last, her patience had run out with the old bat. "Not in the Goddess or any of that nonsense you blather on about."

" _Bellatrix_ , don't swear in front of your great-grandmother," admonished Mother in a soft voice, never letting a harsh word cross her perfectly bred mouth.

"That _dragonshite_ , as you call it young lady, is the root of all Magic. To understand it and to venerate it is beyond your pitiful scope of comprehension," retorted Violetta scathingly, peering at Bella with quite a bit of haughty condescension. "May She illuminate your path before you become irredeemable."

"So may it be," chorused Aunt Lucretia in frank agreement.

Madame Violetta Black was a living relic in many ways, but never more so than when she talked about the Old Religion.

In centuries past, wizards had believed Magic was a primal force, rooted deep in the bowels of the Earth. Its forces were supposed to be governed by the Goddess: a three-fold being who was maid, mother, and crone, and who had gifted wizards and witches with the ability to harness Her magic. During Great-grandmother Violetta's youth, the elder generations had still venerated the Goddess and the beings who'd roamed over her dominion, sources of all magic. When at her most nostalgic, Violetta had spoken of moonlit rituals and wild bonfire nights, extravagant feasts and ritual sacrifices to appease the Goddess.

Of course, with the advent of modernity, most widespread practice of the Old Religion had faded. Only the oldest of pure-bloods remained faithful and, even then, Christmas and Easter were popular celebrations among the younger set. Indeed, very few of her fellow students believed or even knew about the old ways at all, least of all Muggle-borns.

Andromeda supposed bloody animal sacrifices could not really compete with brightly wrapped presents under a glittering tree.

Still, the Blacks gathered to celebrate the holy days to appease the old lady, who (Aunt Walburga hoped) had little time left to share with them. The first family dinner of the summer break was a particular favourite of the Matriarch. Though Deipnon was held on the new moon of each month, having the younger set back from break gave Violetta an opportunity to berate three generations of Blacks over their many and varied failings in person.

Bellatrix, who'd withstood more than one sly dig over five different courses, was starting to look as if she very much wanted to tell Violetta exactly where her Goddess could go shove it.

Sensing her sister was at the end of her tether, Andromeda sought to escape any potential bloodshed. Her periwinkle organza dress robes were new and she'd been hoping to wear them to the Young Ladies' Society tea the following week.

"Pardon me, but I need to use the powder room," announced Andromeda, seizing on the brief lull in the conversation. She hoping they would be leaving soon. After all, there was only so much time the Black women could all tolerate being in the same room together.

Once she'd hidden for a satisfactory amount of time in the guest toilet, Andromeda reluctantly exited and headed down the dark second-floor corridor. For all her airs of grandeur, Walburga could certainly be odd—refusing to light the candles in the hallways during the summer. It was her aunt's own damn fault that her guests kept tripping over that heinous umbrella stand.

 _"Pssst! Pssst, Andy!"_

Quiet giggles came from the winding staircase at the opposite end of the hall. Two handsome boys, aged ten and nine, dangled their raven-haired heads precariously over the edge of the landing. Regulus, cautious as always, shot nervous looks at the drawing-room door, while Sirius greeted her with his usual debonair grin.

"Why good evening, dear cousin," he drawled.

"Reggie, Sirius, you absolute _scoundrels_ ," Andromeda smiled, by way of greeting. "How did you two escape on Kreacher's watch?"

Mischievous little Sirius gave her a signature angelic smile, which told Andromeda that Kreacher had most likely been the subject of a devilish prank. She hoped Sirius hadn't tricked him into Apparating into Muggle London again, since Aunt Walburga had punished Kreacher rather severely that time.

Sirius deliberately ignored Reggie's panicked tugging at his sleeve. "Nothing of the sort, Andy. Say, you wouldn't happen to have any of those delicious biscuits, would you?"

"Has Aunt ordered Kreacher not to give you any?" queried Andromeda, bemused.

"One could say that," he admitted slowly. "But she never said we couldn't ask _you_ to give us any."

Adorably, Reggie and Sirius attempted to look innocent and utterly failed. " _Please_ , Andy?" they chorused pleadingly.

Hearing the rumble of men's voices from upstairs, Andromeda hurriedly handed over her own stash of Kreacher's biscuits. She preferred Memsie's chocolate-chip biscuits anyways—her family's house-elf had a better grasp on flavours, having trained with the Rosier elves in her youth. "Here, but don't say you got them from me!"

Delighted, Sirius opened his gob and immediately crammed two into his mouth, shoving the rest in his pyjama pocket. With a muffled, _"Cheers!"_ he hauled his little brother up and together they scampered back up to their rooms.

For the life of her, Andromeda could never figure out how Walburga had managed to produce such charming boys. It was enough to make a person doubt their parentage, but the thought of Walburga taking a lover was both disgusting and unimaginable.

"Meda, where are you? We're heading home!" drifted Cissa's voice down the hall, as the ladies began to take their leave.

Andromeda nearly sighed with relief. Thank the Goddess, she _despised_ family dinners at Grimmauld Place.

* * *

 **Rosier Mews House, London**

 **New Moon, July 13, 1999**

When Andromeda had first broken ties with her family, Cissa hadn't been at home—her younger sister had left early for a shopping excursion to Diagon Alley with her schoolmates. Recently graduated from Hogwarts, Andromeda had taken advantage of a quiet summer morning at Asterfield House to leave without fuss and bother, only stopping to deposit a letter on the drawing-room table, slipping out through a side door unseen.

Neither Father nor Mother had reached out to her since, although Gringotts had sent an owl to notify Andromeda that her access to the Black vaults had been revoked.

Because she had never really witnessed Cissa's reaction, Andromeda once privately hoped that her younger sister hadn't taken her departure as poorly as the rest of the Blacks (Aunt Walburga had sent a lovely flower arrangement containing Devil's Snare). Remote silence meant that Andromeda was free to imagine Cissa didn't wholly despise her, even though her intuition told her otherwise.

But Cissa had always been Andromeda's favourite, her precious baby sister.

After a difficult labour, Mother had welcomed her and Bella into the nursery of the country manor where the sisters had grown up. A vicious fight had promptly broken out between the toddlers, over which of them would be first to hold the angelic newborn in the bassinet, who woke and wailed when jostled. Despite being sent to bed crying, without supper, it was marked the beginning of a lifelong dynamic between the Black sisters.

Lustrous hair like pale gold silk, Cissa took after the fair Rosiers, rather than matching the traditional Black dark good-looks of her elder siblings. Cissa was indisputably the darling of the three sisters, wholly beloved and rarely denied anything she ever wanted.

Despite the coddling, Cissa grew to be an even-tempered and well-behaved girl, if a bit capricious. As the middle child, constantly at odds with the domineering and explosive Bella, Andromeda welcomed Cissa's soothing manners as a respite from the ever-present bickering. Foul-tempered Bella did the same and little Cissa grew to be the adhesive that bound the sisters together, often playing quiet confidante and advisor to both.

Until she made her fateful decision, Andromeda had not really understood what life without Cissa's steadying presence would mean.

As was expected with every errant Black, Andromeda's close connection with her sister was effectively severed by her whirlwind—and abhorred—elopement with Ted Tonks. After her departure, Andromeda's first and last letter to Cissa was returned unopened, wax seal intact.

Regardless of the pain caused by the rift, leaving her family was a decision she could never bring herself to regret. The years she had spent with Ted and their daughter were full of more life and joy than all her time as part of the Black family.

Most tellingly of all, Andromeda struggled to regret her lost ties to Bella in the same way she missed being Cissa's elder sister.

Over the years—through society pages and wagging tongues—Andromeda heard of the life that she herself might have lived. The wizarding press eagerly covered Cissa's enviable marriage to that Malfoy bastard (not literally, _the scandal_ ) and her life of dazzling charity galas and glittering robes. The birth of a long-awaited heir was splashed announced by Rita Skeeter's scathing quill, and Dora returned from Hogwarts with rumours about the Malfoys unsavoury ties to that _other_ bastard (that one quite literally).

Not once over the years had Cissa written to her, not even when Bellatrix had been justifiably condemned to rot in prison over those unspeakable crimes (Bella, her brooding, passionate, and temperamental older sister had been dead to her since then. Whoever emerged from Azkaban, whatever heartless monster she became—Andromeda was welcome to despise that person freely).

Not once had she heard from Cissa.

Not once until that letter in May, over twenty years and two bloody wars later.

On a bright July morning, Andromeda stood on a lonely Muggle sidewalk, facing a long-forgotten mews house in the historically fashionable Mayfair district of London. From the outside, the house appeared small and unassuming—very different from the lavishness of the Malfoy townhouse Andromeda knew was tucked away somewhere else the city. If anything, Cissa's choice in abandoning her husband's residence was strategic, that Andromeda could tell, but for what purpose was yet to be determined.

Fisted in one hand was Narcissa's message, a perfunctory olive branch on luxurious heavy parchment—enchanted to self-destruct to if opened by the wrong hands. For her younger sister, the war was clearly far from over.

Approaching the house carefully, Andromeda surreptitiously flicked her wand, feeling her magic brush up against the magical protections. The old Rosier wards hummed, recognizing one of their own blood, while an additional layer of Legilimency sussed out her intentions. Had those been less than innocent, Andromeda suspected a more malignant curse would have made an appearance—one of the barely legal variety, long favoured by the Black family.

Once a Black sister, always a Black sister, Andromeda mused.

Having passed muster, Andromeda quietly strode up to the white brick façade and sharply knocked on the simple black front door. It was an unnecessary nicety—if Cissa and her boy knew what was good for them, they would have been aware of her presence the moment she Apparated on their doorstep.

Without pause, the door swung open to reveal a wizened little house-elf. Her bulbous eyes were a nebulous blue, nearly blinded by cataracts, and she wore a neatly pressed white pillowcase with eyelet lace trim as a shift.

"Memsie?" asked Andromeda, surprise colouring her voice.

"Missy Andromeda," croaked Memsie, the old Rosier house-elf who had no business living longer than Methuselah. "Come inside, my Mistress will see you in her parlour."

In line with pure-blood tradition, Mother had most likely given Cissa her own house-elf as a wedding gift. Originally intended as a way to protect newly-wedded daughters, gifted house-elves often served as key allies to the young women in their husbands' households. Since house-elf magic was dependent on their mistresses' magical core, Memsie's loyalty was solely to Narcissa and her offspring, not Lucius Malfoy.

Stepping over the threshold, Andromeda discovered a bright and airy interior, simply decorated in the mauve blues and ivories left over from the Rosiers' French heritage.

Originally part of Druella Rosier's dowry, Andromeda knew Father had not found much use for the quaint little mews house during their London visits, particularly when the much more opulent Grimmauld Place was just across town. He had not seen any appeal to the converted carriage house attached to the back of old Rosier Place, so close to his interfering in-laws. It seemed that after Druella's death, the house had gone to her favourite daughter.

Despite being reoccupied, the house looked unmistakably shuttered and unused. Paintings and furniture were covered by protective cloths, a thin layer of dust coating most surfaces. Although a few spots looked like they had been vigorously tackled with a duster, for the most part, the house appeared uninhabited.

For all her undying loyalty, poor old Memsie seemed to be at what Aunt Walburga had affectionately called 'the beheading age.'

With a brisk hobble, Memsie ushered Andromeda into a dainty sitting room, which appeared to be the only room clean enough for entertaining. Two chintz chairs faced a set of French doors leading to a fragrant garden, replete with magical blooms that should have been out of season. A delicate porcelain tea set was already served with steaming tea and chocolate—a Muggle brand, Andromeda noted.

From one of those chintz armchairs stood an elegant, slender figure.

 _Oh, Cissa_.

Narcissa Black was still as beautiful as ever, but the delicate planes of her face appeared sharp and hardened, fine marble worn down by age, worry, and pain. The resplendent champagne hair of her youth had faded to platinum blonde, streaked with white at the temples and braided into a neat coronet around her head.

A queen with no throne, no king, and no land.

"Andromeda, thank you for coming. Please, take a seat," Cissa spoke in a quiet sigh, as if her voice went unused for long periods of time, and gestured wanly towards the chair beside her.

Despite the long years apart, neither hugged nor wept upon reuniting. Instead, they scrutinized each other carefully, taking in any significant changes and searching for cues to inform the subsequent interaction. It was a reunion that would have made their mother proud—even as a young parent, Druella had loathed tears and snot. Had Cissa collapsed into some unseemly display of emotion, Andromeda would have suspected some trickery, enchantment, or potion.

 _"The Barmiest and Most Bigoted House of Black,"_ teased Ted's voice, always lingering in the back of her mind.

From the first eye contact, Andromeda could sense that Cissa did not seek sympathy or pity, let alone an over-emotional tearful reunion that reeked of insincerity. Choosing the direct approach, Andromeda opted for Ted-esque frankness.

"Why have you asked me here, Cissa?"

Her sister pointedly chose to not to respond. "Let's have some tea first, shall we? Memsie, please offer my sister some refreshments."

Although Memsie did not abide by the Black family tree as Kreacher did, the emphasis on the familial relationship established that Narcissa would not permit any disrespect under her roof. It was a peace offering, expressing to Andromeda that Narcissa was willing to recognize her as one of her own.

She accepted the proffered cup, patiently waiting for Cissa to initiate the conversation. Unlike Bella, Andromeda had never been one to ruin the moment with impetuousness.

"I believe I owe you an apology," began Cissa, perfectly composed other than the tightly clasped slender hand in her lap. "No, I _know_ I do. Many apologies, in fact."

"For?" Andromeda arched an inquisitive brow, curious about what Cissa believed she had to atone for. It was also an expression that highlighted her uncanny resemblance to their sister Bella. From the slight tightening of her mouth, it appeared Cissa saw the similarity as well.

"Where to begin?" Cissa hesitated. "For your husband, for your daughter, even for her werewolf husband—"

"His name was _Remus_ —" Andromeda broke in, her temper flaring. She would not tolerate any disrespect towards her daughter's husband, a far nobler man than any in their mutual acquaintance.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to offend."

Looking more chastised than a woman of her age should, Narcissa fell silent. Her entire demeanour lacked the quiet confidence that had enabled her to rule pure-blood society with an iron grip. Instead, she seemed uncertain, as if she was treading on thin ice and didn't know where to step.

Observing the blossoming garden beyond the French doors, Andromeda noticed a cluster of rare white stargazer lilies. Among the brightly coloured blooms at Dora's and Remus' funeral had been a modest wreath of these, the preferred flower of the Black family. No note had accompanied the arrangement.

Resolving to be kinder, Andromeda smiled ruefully. "Old habits die hard, don't they? Even I had difficulties coming to terms with their marriage—not because of what he was, but because of the hardship I knew Dora would face by association. But Remus was a good man, in spite of his condition."

Andromeda decided that if she was committing to this, she would work on Cissa's prejudices later, tabling that inevitable conversation for another time.

Cissa looked regretful, or as close to regretful as Narcissa Black could look.

"It's not just for the werewolf. It's for the years of missed opportunities, for the distance, for not being brave…" her voice became almost inaudible. "For Bella."

Even in death, Bella's overbearing presence was inescapable. The weight of her memory settled in the heavy silence between the remaining Black sisters, who'd mourned the loss of their third long before her passing.

"None of us can be held responsible for Bella," declared Andromeda, breaking the ice with a tone sharper than intended. Cissa had always cared for Bella more than she ever could, making excuses for things Andromeda had found unforgivable (like water and oil they'd been, since birth). "She chose her fate a long time ago."

Cissa looked resigned. "Even then, I did not nothing while our family was driven apart, while Bella fell into the clutches of that madman. We walked straight past the gates of Tartarus, Meda, but I did nothing to stop it."

Despite the sombre topic at hand, Andromeda's heart surged with hope. Cissa had not called her Meda in over twenty-five years.

"If you have asked me here to atone for every sin you have ever committed Cissa, you are wasting my time," Andromeda replied, tone measured. "I am no priestess. The war is over and the past is in the past. We cannot change what happened… The only thing you can change is what will."

"How? How can I change anything? Look at what we've been reduced to," Narcissa retorted, gesturing helplessly at her current abode—though not exactly destitution, it was a far cry from the luxuries of Malfoy Manor. "I'm irrelevant on my best days, despised at my worst. I can't even live in my own home, it's been quarantined by the Aurors for months. This isn't living Meda, it's _surviving_."

The torrent of words came out in a harsh rush, the first break in Cissa's composure. Oh Cissa, some things never really do change.

Andromeda nearly rolled her eyes, unimpressed. She wanted to end what looked like a months-long pity party before it really took steam. "Seems to me an improvement from having You-Know-Who at your breakfast table."

Cissa's jaw tightened, "The Dark Lord _never_ —"

 _"You-Know-Who,"_ Andromeda emphasized, wanting to nip that 'Dark Lord' nonsense in the bud as well. "Is as dead as a doorknob, thank Harry Potter. You're alive and that's more than others can say."

Involuntarily, Andromeda touched the collar of her robes, underneath which rested a cheap silver Muggle locket with pictures of Dora and Ted, the reassuring cool of the metal always pressed against her chest.

Cissa fell silent, but she was still clasping her hands tightly.

"What about your boy, where is he?"

"Draco is… asleep, I believe."

Andromeda paused in surprise. "It's almost _midday_ , Cissa."

For the first time, Cissa looked discomfited by Andromeda's incredulous gaze. Both women were aware that most strapping eighteen-year-olds did not waste their days in bed—especially the well-bred kind.

"Draco just returned from Hogwarts," replied Cissa, eyes defensive. "He has few friends left in Britain, those who aren't in Azkaban have left for the continent."

Not a surprise. Most pure-blood families with questionable allegiances during the war had decamped for the continent as soon as the borders opened up again. These families had syphoned off their wealth to where the Ministry would not be able to follow.

"So he wastes his days in bed?" retorted Andromeda.

"Master Draco is a not being a proper wizard," croaked a defiant voice from the corner of the room. "He sleeps all day and then goes out after supper. Mistress isn't seeing, but he comes back after Mistress has gone to bed, smelling like a liquor cabinet."

" _Memsie!"_ rebuked Narcissa sharply, but the little house-elf is unmoved.

Andromeda was pleased to see that Cissa had not attempted to squash her house-elf's spirit—although it would have been near impossible, since Memsie had seen them all in nappies. Memsie had always been loyal to her mistresses and their offspring, but she loathed to see them behaving below their station. In her unforgiving approach to propriety, Memsie was all that remained of their mother Druella.

Taking note of this potential ally, Andromeda forged on. "Draco needs an occupation then, something to do with his time so he does not fall into idleness. Have you been in contact with that husband of yours?"

If the mention of Draco had made Cissa vulnerable, bringing up Lucius turned her to stone. "I have not seen Lucius in months."

Wisely, Andromeda kept her thoughts to herself as Cissa did not seem to want to elaborate further. Her dear brother-in-law was certainly in trouble.

Personally, Andromeda thought it would have been ideal to have Lucius locked away for life. However, she knew her sister would suffer without her ridiculous peacock of a husband. In any case, he would be dealt with when the time came (in nine years, thank the Goddess).

"And what do _you_ do all day, Cissa? Tea parties?" The question was a little tactless to be sure, but Andromeda knew it would bring out whatever backbone was left in her sister.

Immediately, Cissa's voice turned hard. "The families of our acquaintance are either out of the country or indisposed to receive us—despite taking full advantage of our hospitality when it was _You-Know-Who_ summoning them to the Manor. Nowhere else is the Malfoy name welcome."

"Then, have you thought about an occupation? A job, perhaps?"

Cissa looked aghast, as if Andromeda had suggested she take Tom, the hunchback bartender at the Leaky Cauldron, as a lover.

Loyal Memsie harrumphed from the corner of the room, similarly offended.

"I hardly mean that you start working as a barmaid at the Hog's Head. But you can't hide away forever, Cissa. You're still young."

Her sister still seemed unconvinced. "But what would I even _do?_ And if Lucius were to receive word that I was working—"

" _Narcissa Black,_ " scolded Andromeda, inadvertently channelling the steely mannerisms of their great-grandmother. "Your husband is rotting away in prison and your son is wasting away at home and drinking himself to sleep every night. What do you plan to do about it?"

Narcissa's blue gaze turned steely at Andromeda's challenge. A creaking above their heads alerted them to the movements of the last, unseen occupant of the mews house. Although it was now past noon, it seemed Draco was finally awake.

Cissa turned to Andromeda, expression determined.

"Well, I supposed we better get started then."

Andromeda smiled, slow and conspiratorial, "Memsie love, would you please wake the young Master? It's almost time for dinner."

The elderly house-elf beamed, throwing back hunched shoulders: "With pleasure, Missy Andromeda."

* * *

 **End Notes:**

[1] Canon divergence: Neither Lucius nor Draco receive prison sentences in canon, but for the sake of character growth and a personal disgust for impunity, they get sentences in this story.

[2] According to my calculations, Violetta barely coincided with Leta at school. However, due to her age and circumstance, her father and male relatives most certainly would have been in the same circles as Corvus Lestrange.

[3] At a now infamous Malfoy Yule Ball, Cassie was publicly challenged by Abraxas Malfoy's new young wife over adultery allegations. The subsequent scandal and shame made temporary pariahs out of the Blacks, thus enabling Cassie's younger sister, Dorea, to accept an entirely unsuitable marriage proposal from Charlus Potter. Mrs Potter now openly credits her own conjugal bliss to her sister's own shameless disrespect for marital vows. This version of Cassiopeia Black is heavily inspired by ShayaLonnie's portrayal of Cassie Black in _The Reclamation of Black Magic_.

[4] Namely, a half-blood mistress Pollux sets up in a secret flat in Muggle London. The result of this affair is a little girl who grows up to be a fine woman and mother—unlike the parent who never publicly acknowledges his illegitimate child.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you for making it this far. Hopefully, the Black family tree did not become too confusing while reading (long story short: everyone is somehow related amongst the old families because incest!), but I have made a family tree (more like a spreadsheet, really) that I can make available if necessary. More importantly, chapter two is already complete and should be up within the week, while chapter three is on its way.

Thanks again for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two, as promised. Even I can't believe it. Thank you for reading!

* * *

 **Excerpts from _Unearthing Our Spiritual Past: Historical Research Into Pre-Christian Wizarding Faiths_ (2007) by Millicent Bulstrode.**

How and when to celebrate the Old Religion widely differs among magic-users across Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East, particularly when taking into account the many and varied peoples that endured the Roman conquest. However, there is one core tenet that rings true across all regions: Magic is a primal force ruled by the Goddess, who gives and takes as she sees fit. Like the Greek Hecate and the Roman Trivia, the Goddess is a trifold being, whose life cycle is celebrated throughout the annual seasonal markers.

Every year, She is born with first blooms of spring, blossoms into maidenhood on the eve of summer, transitions into a mother with the fruit of the harvest, before fading into winter as a crone. For British and Irish wizarding populations, the triptych appearance of the Goddess is likewise reflected in the four major celebrations adopted from existing Celtic rituals: Imbolc in February, Beltane in May, Lughnasadh in August, and Samhain in November. ("She Who Needs Not Be Named", p. 38)

* * *

 **Asterfield House, Wiltshire**

 **The morning after _Lughnasadh_ , August 2nd, 1970**

Powder-blue dawn lingered at the edges of Andromeda's curtains, creeping softly into the corners and crevices of her childhood bedroom.

Chestnut-brown curls fanned out on her silk pillowcase, Andromeda stared up at the roof of her canopy bed, somehow restless and yet so very tired. A gold-edged porcelain teacup full of hot cocoa lay untouched on her bedside table, with the telltale spiral steam of a dreamless Sleeping Draught wafting from its surface. Beside her dozed Cissa peacefully, with her arms wrapped tight around a plummy feather pillow and her empty teacup on the opposite nightstand.

The house was preternaturally quiet in the early morning hours. Still, Andromeda lay awake—listening, _waiting._

—/—

 _The night before at Lestrange Lodge_

At the beginning of the evening, there had been nothing remiss about the Lestrange party, nothing to insinuate it would be anything more than the usual pure-blood soirée.

After Mr Lestrange had caught wind of the charges of heresy levelled against his House, he had undertaken the task of silencing the Black criticism once and for all. Andromeda could have told him it was a futile endeavour, but the Lestranges were never really known for their good sense. Regardless, in his attempt to spite old Violetta Black, the elder Mr Lestrange had inadvertently organized the affair of the summer—and he was _thrilled._

Above the miles of lush parkland that surrounded the greystone manor, a new moon hovered high in the velvety darkness, casting only a weak sliver of light on the raucous festivities below. In the centre of the clearing stood a towering bonfire, its orange flames soaring high above the heads of party-goers and bathing them in a vermilion glow. By the time the Blacks made their appearance, more than one inebriated fool had already been saved by the protective wards encircling its sweltering heat.

As the master of ceremonies, Mr Lestrange had led a vaguely interested crowd of pure-bloods through the ceremonial cutting of the corn, before unleashing them upon the sumptuous spread of fruits, cheeses, and cured meats. Vintage elf wine and honeyed mulled mead flowed freely amongst the illustrious guests.

"Why, Cygnus, let me introduce you to the president of the Soviet Magical Sports and Games Federation. She's very graciously offered us box office seats for the World Cup final," Mr Lestrange had just about crowed, steering Andromeda's father in the direction of a dour-looking woman in sharply-cut dark grey robes.

Pretending to lean onto her great-granddaughter for support, Violetta had snorted with quiet derision: "Has a chip on his shoulder the size of Gibraltar, doesn't he? Minor branches do go above and beyond to prove themselves."

Though the glittering assortment of guests included the recently retired Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, more than a few Ministry department heads, and the famously beautiful Ruwa Shafiq (recently widowed), no one garnered more interest than a tall pale wizard dressed somberly in simple black travelling robes. A former schoolmate of the elder Mr Lestrange and her father, that guest of honour had been set up at a small circular table, away from the fire and the general merrymaking. Whoever he was, he'd arrived with a small entourage of cloaked foreboding men who did not stray far, including three members of a Byelorussian coven—one of whom was quick to steal Andromeda from Rabastan Lestrange's arms after the first dance.

Strong-boned with dark brows and a prominent nose, he could have passed as a peasant with his dark travelling cloak, if only one ignored its rich emerald velvet lining and the intricate golden cross pinned ironically to the breast pocket of his white shirt. The vampire introduced himself as Vasil, omitting a surname as was customary amongst his kind.

"How very lovely you British witches look tonight," remarked Vasil appreciatively, his thick accent warm and syrupy. "All dressed like the Vestals."

Though Andromeda felt more like a virgin sacrifice than a virgin priestess, the vampire hadn't entirely missed the mark with his comparison. Under the pretence of experiencing a true harvest celebration, Mr Lestrange's invitations had bid guests shed their habitual finery for the sake of spirituality. Though poverty as a state of being was deplorable, as a costume it was to be celebrated among the elite.

Modest lightweight robes were all the rage among the young ladies, most of whom wore wreaths of wildflowers in their hair, whilst the men chose simpler-cut robes in rougher fabrics. Nonetheless, despite instructions, firelight still reflected off bejewelled signet rings and discreetly placed diamond earrings. Even the deceptive simplicity of Andromeda's own outfit, a confection of white muslin and eyelet lace, was belied by the opalescent shimmer of the goblin-crafted stargazer lilies tucked into her flowing dark curls.

"Thank you, how kind of you to say so," replied Andromeda politely, alternating meeting his intense gaze with keeping a watchful eye over his shoulder. Hosting duties could only keep Rabastan Lestrange occupied for so long.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Miss Andromeda," continued Vasil, his bemused smile at odds with his brooding features. "My colleagues are quite taken with some of your lovely witches—especially that little slip of starlight over there."

Of course, how unsurprising.

As always, Mother had taken great pains with all her daughters' appearances, but without fail Cissa emerged as the most resplendent of the three. Wearing robes of silvery-white chiffon, she approached Andromeda and Vasil looking like a moonbeam in the night. Led by the arm of Lucius Malfoy, that pompous silver-haired peacock, the admittedly attractive pair approached Andromeda and her companion as the music dwindled.

Although the Malfoy scion was also her year-mate at Hogwarts, Andromeda rarely chose to interact with him and his associates beyond the usual niceties required of their station in life. With his little self-assured smirk, Andromeda found Malfoy to be insufferably arrogant and all too aware of how many young witches vied for his attentions. He really was very handsome, unfortunately—high cheekbones that could cut glass, paired with mercurial eyes.

To his credit, those eyes had rarely strayed from Narcissa throughout the evening.

For her own peace of mind, Andromeda was gratified to observe her sister maintain her wits about her, keeping the blonde wizard at a respectable distance. Though Cissa was among the younger set at the event, her sister would never make a fool of herself by clinging onto the Malfoy heir like some kind of common trollop.

"Cissa, Malfoy, what a lovely evening isn't it?" she called out. Mother disapproved of raising your voice in public, but exceptions could be made for crowded parties.

"Andromeda, you look enchanting," greeted Malfoy with a short bow, as if they didn't see each other in the common room every day from September to June. "And this is Mr—?"

"Please let me present Mr Vasil," supplied Andromeda smoothly, as if the Blacks often deigned to associate with bloodsuckers. "He's here with Mr Lestrange's _honoured_ guest."

Vasil gave a short nod in confirmation.

"Meda, Mr Rabastan just asked us where you've been," Cissa teased lightly, as if she knew exactly what her sister was up to. "I've told him you've already given away most of your dances, but he seems very adamant about blessing you with at least one more."

"How generous of him," Andromeda deadpanned. "I really should find him if they play another Celestina tune."

Standing with Cissa's hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, Malfoy smirked at Andromeda. "Lestrange didn't trod on your slippers, or did he?"

It was rather disconcerting to see her sister perfectly at ease on Malfoy's arm, the pair smiling conspiratorially. Though Malfoy wouldn't be allowed to court Narcissa until she was of age, Andromeda hoped that engagement could be held off even longer—she wasn't quite ready to give up her sister just yet.

Mr Vasil eyed her speculatively: "Your elder Miss Black is the betrothed of our young host, is she not?"

"Our Bella is engaged to marry Rodolphus, Mr Vasil," confirmed Cissa, with a polite smile.

Malfoy added on, none too tactfully, "Some are already wondering if Mr Rabastan will follow in his brother's footsteps."

"And all this time I thought you were studying for your N.E.W.T.s, Malfoy, instead you've been playing match-maker with Crabbe and Goyle," Andromeda surmised, enjoying the barest hint of strain at the corners of Malfoy's smarmy expression.

Cissa raised a thin blonde eyebrow in warning, looking unimpressed with the pair of them. "I'm sure Lucius only has your best interest in mind, Meda."

"I care for the welfare of all Black sisters," Malfoy assured her gallantly, and Cissa's glacial demeanour melted slightly.

Andromeda fought the urge to retch.

"Lucius!"

A sharp baritone voice carried over from the secluded table in the outskirts of the clearing, where Abraxas Malfoy's blonde head shone brightly against a sea of dark cloaks, motioning for his son to join him. Though it was hard to focus on the group, from what she suspected were hastily cast Notice-Me-Nots, Andromeda could see more than a few illustrious families represented in their midst: the Goyles, the Crabbes, the Averys. At their centre sat the unknown tall, pale wizard, his features waxy and blurred in the firelight, in the middle of a fiercely whispered conversation with Lestrange the elder. For all his previous preening, Mr Lestrange looked a bit like a child about to face his father's belt.

"Ladies, just a moment," Malfoy excused himself with a polite nod.

"Our host is currently out of favour with my Lord," observed Vasil drily, accent rolling heavily on his tongue. "That does not bode well for his sons. Maybe you would consider the suit of another House instead, Miss Andromeda?"

Cissa's eyes narrowed, demeanour frosty. "How very helpful you are, Mr Vasil. When the House of Black begins to take advice from a vampire, we'll certainly be in touch. Now, if you'll excuse us, my sister and I are in desperate need of the powder room."

The vampire laughed abruptly, a rusty unused sound that attracted curious looks. "After nine hundred years, witches never change," he shrugged, sweeping away with an unnatural flair of his black cloak.

"Insolent bloodsuckers," Cissa hissed in her ear, hand tucked into Andromeda's elbow and steering her through the crowd toward the refreshments. "Really, Meda, what were you thinking? All these nice proper wizards and you choose to dance with one of _those."_

"Oh _stop,_ Cissa," groaned Andromeda quietly. "You're beginning to sound just like dear old Wally."

In the week leading up to the Lughnasadh celebration, nearly every Black family member had expressed their qualified opinion as to whom Andromeda should (or should not) consider as a potential spouse. With the problematic Bella finally betrothed, pairing off the next two sisters should have been smooth flying.

Since their last Deipnon dinner, Aunt Walburga had picked up a relentlessly campaigning for Rabastan, eager to fortify their ties to the House of Lestrange, while Aunt Cassie had suggested Andromeda pursue one of the older well-to-do wizards on the market. Plutochrus Parkinson might have been ugly as sin, but he'd bought his first wife a set of rare tanzanite earrings and she hadn't even given him a son.

Though Mother had preferred to keep her cards close to her chest, as per usual, even Father had unexpectedly requested Andromeda save a dance for Mr Corban Yaxley, the son of his close associate and a great-great-nephew to Lysandra Black.

And, whomever her great-granddaughter chose, Great-grandmother Violetta's only request was that Andromeda would remain ambivalent towards Rabastan Lestrange for as long as possible—she wanted to see Aunt Walburga squirm for a little longer.

For most attendees, the evening had an air of playful romance. Around the bonfire's girth, scores of witches and wizards danced, laughed, and drank unreservedly, indulging in the heady elf wine flowing freely from the stacked tankards at the edge of the field. Woodland fairies fluttered overhead, their gossamer wings refracting the firelight and sparkling in the night sky. With the hand-fasting season wrapping up and newlyweds inducted into married life, a new set of players were taking their places in mothers' game of choice: match-making. That night, it seemed like everyone other than Andromeda was keen on participating.

"Oh dear, here comes Mr Yaxley," Andromeda sighed before putting on a pleasant smile, with Cissa all but pushing her into the tall blonde's arms.

Over the next hour and a half, Andromeda engaged in two intricate sets of footwork simultaneously. For one, she danced and whirled with wizard after wizard by the bonfire: Yaxley, Warrington, Montague, Avery, Avery, Yaxley, Travers, and so forth. Nonetheless, each move was deliberately calculated to take her further and further away from a certain young host. Unbeknownst to her fellow guests, Andromeda was in the middle of playing a game, one more akin to the hunter and prey variety.

For a brief pause in the music, when the musicians switched from live playing to a melodic enchanted piano, Andromeda was given a short respite.

"Have you seen Bella?" Cissa materialized as if Apparating by her side. Though she still looked impeccably put together after an evening of dancing, concern was straining at the corners of her expression.

"Honestly, Cissa, she must be off with Mr Rodolphus somewhere."

Most likely snogging, but Andromeda would never say that out loud to her little sister. Bella might not love Rodolphus, but she certainly liked him enough to frequent every cupboard in Asterfield House with him. Regardless of Andromeda's assurances, the worried crinkle in Cissa's brow refused to budge.

Andromeda sighed, careful to keep an eye on her surroundings lest Rabastan Lestrange sneak up on them. "Really, Cissa—she's probably helping Mr Rodolphus with his hosting duties, managing house-elves and whatnot."

Narcissa raised a thin blonde eyebrow in response. Both sisters knew Bella would rather succumb to dragonpox than play little housewife.

In truth, Andromeda wasn't very worried. As far as she was concerned, wherever Bella went, the Lestrange brothers were sure to follow.

It was odd, to be sure. Most newly betrothed witches loved to flaunt their engagements and the pretty baubles they'd been gifted. As future daughter-in-law to the host, Bella was reserved pride of place, especially with no living Madame Lestrange to contend with. Had Bella been a normal young lady, she would have been preening over the black diamond choker now roped constantly around her neck—a piece cursed to asphyxiate any wearer who'd obtained the necklace through duplicitous means.

But then again, Bella had never been one to stick to convention.

Anxious that so much time spent in one spot meant Rabastan would be sure to find her, Andromeda crossed her arms impatiently. "You want me to find her, don't you?"

Delighted, Cissa cracked a pleased smile. "That would be lovely, thank you. It's just that I promised Alexander Montague a dance a while ago and look, he's coming to claim it right now."

"I'll do my best, but don't expect much. Bella never does anything she doesn't want to."

Tossing back a sheet of shining blonde hair, Cissa teased: "And please, Meda, no more dancing with bloodsuckers. We have taste."

Over Cissa's shoulder, Andromeda caught sight of a familiar head of dark hair trailing behind Montague. Quickly turning on her heel, she slipped through the hulking figures of Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle, making a beeline of a refreshments table with enough oversized gaudy glower arrangements to conceal her from view.

"Andromeda, darling, how lovely to see you," called out Charity Crouch, her father's second cousin, while dragging a sullen straw-haired boy behind her. "I've been looking for dear Bella, do you know where I could find her? We need to use the Lestranges' Floo."

"Auntie, I want to go home," whined Barty petulantly, kicking the rear legs of a nearby chair. Its occupant, an inebriated wizard who had dozed off with a goblet in hand, woke to find its contents spilt down his front. With a hiccup, he waved his wand and turned his shirt a lurid shade of chartreuse.

Such a little beast, thought Andromeda, careful not to wrinkle her nose in distaste. "So sorry, Cousin Charity, I daresay I haven't. Why don't you ask Mr Rabastan? He's right over there," Andromeda faked her regret without any compunction. "I'm certain he could be of some help."

"Marvelous idea—Mr Rabastan! Mr Rabastan! Barty, where do you think you're headed?"

Delighting in her momentary triumph over Lestrange, Andromeda was at her leisure to weave around wooden picnic tables bearing overflowing cornucopias, replete with ripened bilberries, stalks of grain, and fresh loaves of bread. The scent of succulently roasted pork wafted in the air, magical plates refilling instantly. As someone well-acquainted with Cousin Charity's ability to hold others hostage with her inane chatter, Andromeda knew she had time to fill a small plate of her own before Lestrange could make his escape.

With the party in full swing, Andromeda caught snippets of conversation as she cut through the attendees, fully aware that hushed whispers or startled changes in conversation meant gossip was underfoot.

 _'Why are you so surprised, of course they found her a Lestrange to marry—one of the few families they've never dipped their claws into.'_

 _'Haven't seen her all night, she'd skipped out on the reception line by the time we arrived. What else can you expect, all those Blacks are so high and mighty.'_

Andromeda made a point of stopping by that particular table and asking Mrs Marianne Prince about her own daughter, who'd notoriously run off to marry some common Muggle boar.

Of course, nowhere else was the gossip more vicious, more derisive, or more accurate than the Matriarchs' special tent. Tucked away at the edge of the field, Mr Lestrange had furnished a haven of comfort for his elderly feminine guests. There, Great-Aunt Melania, Grandmother Irma, and their cohort had already discussed at length their opinions on the night: from the hosts to the ladies' robes to the hors d'oeuvres, they had studied all with meticulous attention to detail—and found it wanting.

"This entire event is a farce, Circe save us," declared Great-aunt Melania, comfortably ensconced in an armchair and sipping on champagne from a crystal flute. Whereas Grandmother Irma's famous beauty had only faded into vacant sort of elegance, Great-Aunt Melania remained a forbiddingly sharp witch: her cloudless blue eyes seemed to know all.

Great-grandmother Violetta twisted her thin lips but kept silent, preferring the scornfully bored expression she'd adopted for the night. Not only did Violetta have to endure Lestrange's party—which she'd griped about plenty in the weeks leading up to it—but she also had to do so surrounded by Great-aunt Melania and her group of loyal sycophants.

Once Andromeda had dutifully doled out a round of air-kisses and compliments ("Is that fairy-spun silk, Madame Flint?"), she was instructed by her Grandmother Irma to "Sit right here dear, right beside me, and ask that horrible little creature to serve the ladies more lemonade." Great-grandmother Violetta strategically handed her a bunch of grapes, which Andromeda accepted gratefully as an excuse to let the matrons talk amongst themselves.

Over the years, Andromeda's great-grandmother had made it clear she thought Great-aunt Melania's band of loyal followers had about as much substance as baby puffskeins. Whether or not this was true, Andromeda didn't think it her place to say. Nonetheless, these matrons headed some of the most important families in wizarding Britain. From the luxury of their sitting rooms, these witches ruled society with an iron fist, passing judgement on their peers and sentencing them to either censure or praise. Mostly censure.

Great-aunt Melania, always pleased to have an audience, continued with her scathing assessment of the night, "I simply don't know how that man sleeps at night, if this is how he honours Her."

From Irma's right, her sister-in-law Grendelle Crabbe grunted in agreement. It was as much as she would ever say—Madame Crabbe was a troll-like woman of few words.

"Did you see his secretary hiccuping his way through the speech? Shameful," readily agreed Belladonna Flint, whose pinching fingers had bruised many Black children's cheeks. Madame Flint had earned that particular privilege through her mother, the late Belvina Black.

"So frightful the way he stumbled all over the platform, it was like Mr Fawley at poor Cora's seventeenth all over again," criticized Charis Crouch (née Black). "Andromeda, did I see you speaking with my daughter? Is that boy giving her any trouble? I don't know what my nephew was thinking, bringing an eight-year-old to a bonfire night."

Personally, Andromeda thought their censure of Mr Lestrange's straight-laced secretary was a bit unfair. Mr Hornsby had been entirely unaware that the young masters had spiked the first few tankards of wine with something stronger (and not entirely Ministry approved). As to Barty Crouch Jr's behaviour, Andromeda could only attest, "He didn't seem to be in the best of moods, Aunt Charis."

"That boy needs a firm wand," declared Madame Flint. "None of my boys turned out that way. Young men these days behave less and less like wizards and more like common Muggles, wouldn't you agree Irma?"

As if to illustrate her point, shrieks of laughter came from a group attempting to catch the fairies above their heads. Andromeda recognized Warrington, last year's Head Boy, as he tried lifting a young witch by the waist and promptly collapsed from the effort. Although he stood up relatively unscathed, the same could not be said for her white linen skirts, which were left grass-stained and muddy by the fall.

The ladies collectively tutted in disgust. Andromeda suspected Warrington would have a hard time finding a suitable bride this season.

"Andromeda, dear, do not accept any more invitations from those young men tonight," instructed Grandmother Irma quietly,

"Really, how uncouth," declared Great-aunt Melania, her friends nodding in agreement.

Great-grandmother Violetta let out a thinly-veiled snort of derision. In her knobbly hand was a lowball glass full of Ogden's Finest, which she pointedly brought to her thin lips.

"If I were your age again, Andromeda, I'd certainly accept a drink or two from a young wizard—especially if he's uncouth," announced Violetta, breaking her silence with a dangerous smile cutting across her wrinkled face. "Circe knows old Cygnus was clever enough to snap me up before I entered my prime."

"Really, Madame," sighed Grandmother Irma, embarrassment slightly colouring her thin cheeks. "This party is no better than a common Muggle drinking establishment. Andromeda knows better than to associate with wizards of that calibre."

"But what about bloodsuckers?" asked Great-grandmother Violetta, mirth glinting behind that golden monocle. "There are some very nice ones on the hunt tonight."

For Circe's sake, one dance with Mr Vasil and Andromeda would be hearing about it until next Yuletide. "Mr Vasil is here accompanying Mr Lestrange's honoured guest," replied Andromeda politely, careful to avoid sounding exasperated.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day when a nameless nobody was Mr Lestrange's _honoured guest,"_ scoffed Great-grandmother Violetta, motioning for a nearby elf to refill her plate. "At least my boy Cygnus never went sniffing around that Riddle boy. We can all thank Druella's charms for that. All those other fools were completely enamoured—look at Thaddeus Nott, no wife or heir to speak of."

"Madame," protested a wide-eyed Grandmother Irma, unable to say more in front of the ladies. Grandmother would never dare berate the Matriarch in public.

"As for Ravenus Lestrange, he's organized this Lughnasadh not to celebrate Her, but to celebrate himself," condemned Great-grandmother Violetta. "Such vanity, one could mistake him for a Malfoy."

In the ensuing uncomfortable silence, Andromeda could only take a very long sip from her goblet.

"Won't Andromeda have her pick of the season next year?" eagerly intervened Madame Crouch, executing a very abrupt transition into her preferred subject of conversation. The witch prided herself on an eighty per cent success rate in predicting matches. "I daresay Cygnus and Druella have had plenty of offers."

If her parents had, this was Andromeda's first time hearing of it—not that she'd alert Madame Crouch to the fact.

"She could have a Lestrange if she wished," declared Grandmother Irma quietly, with a hint of pride—as if it was her doing that Andromeda was such a desirable prospect and not the Black family name. "But nothing will be announced until after Bella's marriage, of course. Family tradition."

"What about Abraxas' boy?" queried Madame Flint, peering at Andromeda curiously through slim bifocals. "He isn't spoken for yet."

Despite the engaging smile she offered the ladies in response, Andromeda was irked. She was already so tired of all this match-making talk and her season hadn't even started—gossiping non-stop about wizards day in, day out. Had it been that way for Bella? Had she simply accepted Rodolphus' proposal as an alternative to exploding from sheer exasperation?

"Don't wait too long girl," recommended her great-grandmother, jabbing a spindly finger in her direction. "Wizards aren't anything at all like elf wine—they don't get any finer with age. Best get them young and ripe, when they're still worth the trouble."

"Maybe Andromeda would consider a Rosier?" inquired Madame Flint, coughing delicately to alert them to the approach of prying ears—and a potential suitor.

"Andromeda!" A young flaxen-haired Apollo strode deliberately up to the matrons' tent, white smile dazzling in the evening firelight, "Cousin, I've been searching everywhere for you. Mesdames, you're looking lovely this evening." Two pink spots bloomed unattractively on Madame Flint's sallow cheeks, while the surrounding witches tittered in amusement.

Thank Circe for Ellis Rosier.

Only a year below Andromeda in Slytherin, her second cousin was as charming as he was handsome, as well as a particular favourite among the old biddies.

"I wish I had more time to enjoy your illustrious company, but I've come to claim the dance I was promised. Shall we?" With her grandmother's nod of approval, Andromeda daintily grabbed hold of Ellis' proffered arm and let herself be guided towards the bonfire.

It was a universally acknowledged truth among their set that Ellis Rosier's good looks, good breeding, and good fortune meant he would have no trouble when it came time to find a spouse. Of course, the massive family estate in Devonshire that he was set to inherit as the eldest son was already a source of excitement for young witches. Though his own season wouldn't be for another two years, Ellis' mother had confided in her cousin Druella that she'd turned down three offers already.

Personally, Andromeda understood why, tilting her head back to look into Ellis' cloudless blue eyes, which sparkled down at her with Puckish mischief. It seemed her younger cousin had grown a head taller than her over the summer.

"Since when do I promise you dances, Ellis?" inquired Andromeda, thoroughly amused by the whole scheme. "I can't say I appreciate being commandeered like that."

"You can thank your sister for this rescue," Ellis laughed. At Hogwarts, Ellis' beguiling smile had earned him a cult following among ladies and even some men. "After my dance with her, Narcissa made it clear that I wasn't to return to the floor without you."

Andromeda smirked. "And you're the obedient type, are you?"

"Don't pretend, Andromeda, you've been avoiding us boys all night," he teased, deftly twirling her closer to the bonfire. "Wizards have been falling all over themselves to dance with the next eligible Black sister, only to see her cavorting with a bloodsucker."

"That's an awful way to refer to yourself," she quipped. "You're only a slight pest."

He sidestepped her playful jab, returning with one of his own: "But you are avoiding someone, then? Come now, it wouldn't happen to be a certain host, would it?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny, Ellis. After all, we have three hosts."

"Well, we both know Bellatrix never shares. So unless you're avoiding Lestrange Sr—in which case, what an _excellent_ party this would be—by default, my next guess would have to be Lestrange the younger," deduced Ellis with ease. "But why should the rest of us have to endure your absence as a consequence of his ardour?"

"His _ardour?_ I wasn't aware you were subscribed to Witch Weekly magazine," Andromeda scoffed. "You didn't even notice my absence until Cissa pointed it out—and you could have kept on entertaining her instead. Or are none of the other ladies to your liking?"

"I think we both know who your sister prefers," Ellis answered, leaving her second quip unanswered. "But I believe the question on everyone's mind is, who do you?"

She raised an eyebrow, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. "If that's the question on everyone's mind, then the Daily Prophet must be having a slow week."

"Heart as black as your name, I see," Ellis countered. "I wonder, which brave wizard will be as up to the task as Perseus was? Perhaps Rabastan Lestrange's affection is being put to the test? What monster will he have to fend off to win your favour?"

Andromeda's sharp laugh caused whispers to ripple around them.

"You hurt me, cousin," she replied, lowering her voice to avoid eavesdroppers. "We're simply playing a little game—it's not my fault that he's such a slow player."

"Ah, but I've never known you to play a game you couldn't win, cousin."

With a final flourish, the band wrapped up their upbeat tune to thunderous applause. As for Ellis, he deftly twirled Andromeda one last time—only to leave her standing face to face with a triumphant Rabastan Lestrange.

"Except this time, cousin," Ellis snickered in her ear, before setting off to gather his next dance partner.

"You're a fine wizard, Rosier," called out Rabastan Lestrange behind him, an appreciative gleam in his dark eyes as he finally faced Andromeda, smug as a Kneazle.

Ellis was a right bastard, Andromeda fumed. It had been too long since she'd seen Ellis outside of school, long enough to forget his childhood game of choice—pranks, usually nasty in nature.

"Miss Andromeda," simpered Rabastan, as if they hadn't spent the better part of the night playing capture the kelpie. _Fuck,_ a game that she had been winning, at least until she let her guard down.

Andromeda resisted the urge to grimace in his face. Anything less than impassive politeness would incite a wave of gossip that would reach her parents' ears. Anything more would serve to inflate Rabastan's already considerable ego.

"Mr Rabastan," she replied, settling on feigning innocent surprise. "I haven't seen you all night, wherever did you go?"

A flash of annoyance moved like dark lightning over his thin features—it appeared he'd had too much spiked wine to keep his usual level of composure. Quickly, Rabastan smoothed his expression into what he must have believed was a charming grin. "Looking for you, of course. One could almost say you've been avoiding me, Miss Andromeda, but we both know that to be false."

"Only almost, Mr Rabastan? What a shame."

Once more, anger flared in the shadow of his dark eyes. Remembering the Lestranges' reputation for congenital madness, Andromeda considered that was a side to Rabastan best left unexplored.

"You promised me a dance earlier," Rabastan reminded her, extending his hand.

It was unfortunately true. In retrospect, it had been foolish to agree when Andromeda had no intention of fulfilling her word, only doing so under the impression that she would be able to avoid him the entire night. Now, with other pairs assembling around them and the band tuning their instruments for the next piece, Andromeda suspected there was no escaping this one.

Over the curve of Rabastan's shoulder, she caught sight of Mother and Aunt Walburga mingling by a nearby refreshment table with the newly-minted Madame Malfoy (by way of her mother-in-law's untimely death of course). The three ladies were eyeing the pair speculatively, her aunt leaning over to murmur in Mother's ear. To reject Rabastan in public would be fodder for gossip, and to do so in front of Aunt Walburga would be signing her death warrant.

"So I did," Andromeda conceded, keeping still as he slipped both a delicate hand into hers and a slender arm around her waist.

Standing in his embrace, she realized for the first time that Rabastan wasn't as tall as her imagination made him out to be. Facing each other, they stood nearly nose to nose, eye to eye. Though he wasn't as unattractive as a Crabbe or a Flint—indeed, his dark aristocratic features bore an offhand resemblance to the Blacks—Rabastan definitely lacked the ability to make her pulse race for the right reasons.

While Rabastan led her through another high-spirited tune, the fiddler's fingertips fairly flying over the strings, Andromeda felt a current of righteous fury course through her chest, burning white-hot under her ribcage. As he steered her through the jaunty steps of the dance, Rabastan was unabashedly parading them as a couple in front of all of society. Curious eyes trailed their figures, taking in whatever perceived signs of affection Rabastan fed them: guiding her gently by the waist, brushing a dark curl off her shoulder, letting his dark eyes linger too long on her lips.

Society matrons around them murmured knowingly, beginning to calculate for the sake of their own daughters. _Rabastan Lestrange is a catch, they seemed to say, and Andromeda Black has stolen him from right under your noses._

It was humiliating, to say the least.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked at one point, bringing her so close after a spin that the heat of his wine-soaked breath tickled the delicate shell of her ear.

Andromeda pointedly stifled a yawn. In response, his grip on her waist tightened uncomfortably.

With the moon at its zenith in the night sky, the wine had already been flowing freely for the past few hours—dancers were becoming careless, stepping on toes and stumbling on skirt hems. Rabastan himself reeked of whatever concoction he'd been drinking that night, whatever heinous combination that brought out the dangerous edge in his personality that Andromeda found so disquieting.

The band couldn't have wrapped up the song any faster. No sooner had the last note faded, Andromeda had immediately scoured the crowd for her next escape.

"Now, I have quite a nice idea. Why don't we—"

But as to what Rabastan Lestrange thought would be a nice idea, Andromeda was destined to never find out. By the Goddess' will, her saviour appeared in the most unexpected of persons—seeming to materialize out of thin air, even though Apparating within private residences was considered bad form.

"Andromeda Black, where have you been hiding all night?"

Amaryllis Carrow's strident voice had never been more welcome.

Despite her size, the diminutive witch barreled through the crowd, wielding sharp little elbows as her preferred weapon to part the masses. Behind her loomed the dark shadow of her older cousin Amycus, a high-strung wizard who personally took on the charge of supervising his female relatives—including his own adult sister.

Though the relationship between the girls was strained at the best of times, Andromeda had been friendly with Amaryllis for the better part of their time at Hogwarts. After years of sharing such close quarters in the Slytherin dorms, Andromeda knew Amaryllis could always be counted on to barge her pert nose into the lives of her nearest (and not necessarily dearest) friends.

"Amaryllis, so lovely to see you," smiled Andromeda, with more warmth than she'd ever expressed toward her schoolmate, and nodded at the disapproving chaperone. "Mr Carrow."

"Carrow, what a pleasure," greeted Rabastan politely, mindful of his host duties. Though he was perfectly gracious, there was an annoyed edge to his smile.

"Mr Rabastan, what an honour," simpered Amaryllis, undaunted by his visible displeasure. She adopted a coquettish smile that Andromeda had seen her practice in the mirror regularly, often before in the early morning hours before lessons. "Such a delightful party you've hosted, my mother was just thrilled to be invited. We do hope that this is the first of many."

Considering the predatory glimmer in her friend's dark eyes, Andromeda acted on the opportunity before, Circe forbid, Rabastan could make his excuses and drag her away to some secluded corner. "Mr Rabastan, have you met Miss Amaryllis before? She's such an exquisite dancer, please do give her a turn."

Positively clenching his jaw with anger, Rabastan barely disguised his chagrined expression. "With pleasure. May I?"

"Miss Andromeda is exaggerating," preened Amaryllis, attempting and failing at self-deprecation. Though she acted kittenish, Amaryllis was more like a Wampus: light and quick on her feet, but most certainly lethal if she caught you with her teeth. "But I would be delighted to. Cousin Amycus, why don't you invite Miss Andromeda to dance?"

Always unfailingly rude, Amycus Carrow grimaced. "I think I'd rather not. If you'll excuse me, my sister needs attending to."

To Amaryllis' delight, the band had finally decided to slip into a series of plaintive love songs perfect for couples. Although Mr Lestrange had been unable to secure Celestina Warbeck as entertainment, he had found a decent replacement in Tillie Holiday, a witch whose syrupy voice was crooning a rendition of What a Bit of Firelight Can Do (For You).

With Rabastan glaring at her departing figure, Andromeda felt almost lighthearted with the recent turn of events. There was no possibility that Amaryllis would release him from her sharp clutches within the half-hour. Judging by the low-hanging moon and the bonfire's dwindling flames, Andromeda planned to be snug and warm in her bed in less time than that.

It all happened very quickly, Andromeda considered in retrospect.

After joining the ladies by the refreshment table, Mother had been brushing an imaginary speck off her sleeve, whispering instructions to keep her options open for as long as possible ("Be careful darling, we wouldn't want you to squander any opportunities"). Meanwhile, Aunt Walburga fixed Andromeda with a withering glare, unable to berate her in front of Madame Malfoy.

Most partygoers were considerably tired and inebriated by that point, beginning to gather their belongings and stumble their way to the enchanted wagons ("How tawdry," Violetta had scoffed), which would take them up to the greystone manor, where they would Floo from the Lestranges' foyer. Across the clearing, Andromeda could make out Father and Cissa leading the grandmothers over to the carriages, with a wizened little house-elf carrying their heavy fur-lined stoles behind them.

An eery chill had stolen over the clearing, temperature dropping sharply, when a blaze of light and sound erupted at the edge of the forest. Menacing cloaked figures emerged from the dense treeline, faces obscured by shadows, wands held aloft like torches. Magic crackled in the air when, with a flick of the ringleader's wand, two motionless figures soared overhead. Young boys barely older than Barty, dressed in obviously Muggle clothing, were suspended by magic in mid-air, hovering above the bonfire like spit-roasted hogs.

A familiar feminine laugh, feral like the wind in a thunderstorm, made something in Andromeda's stomach roil.

Around them, the remaining partygoers eagerly hastened to flee the scene, lest the Ministry arrive and cut off access to the Floo Network. Madame Malfoy hid a dainty yawn behind her handkerchief, excusing herself for the evening: "I'm sure Abraxas will be home when he's had his fun." Aunt Walburga looked vaguely amused while Mother appeared unmoved, wandering off to summon their cloaks and shawls.

A hysterical Cousin Charity hurried past, calling out frantically for a missing Barty.

"Come now, ladies," called out Father, a white-faced Cissa trailing in his wake, before ushering them onto the remaining wagons. Pearlescent magic rippled in the sky above, a telltale sign that Aurors were already attempting to penetrate the wards. "Go on home, I'll be behind you shortly. Druella, send an owl to Mr Darrow as soon as possible."

—/—

 _The morning after Lughnasadh at Asterfield House_

Not long after their arrival, upon which Mother immediately retreated to her bedroom with a nightcap in hand, the door to Andromeda's room creaked open and Cissa slipped inside without invitation. With her pale blonde hair streaming over the shoulders of her white muslin nightgown, Cissa's freshly-washed face appeared younger and more vulnerable than it had in years.

"Can't you sleep?" she whispered.

Andromeda shook her head, wordlessly turning down the corner of her plush pale-blue comforter. Slipping underneath, Cissa curled onto her side to face Andromeda, who sat rigid with her back against the headboard and her knees tucked up inside her own nightgown.

"I enjoyed myself tonight," Cissa admitted quietly. "All things considered."

Humming absentmindedly in agreement, Andromeda played with her thick chestnut curls, weaving her fingers through the tangles and pulling at a particularly difficult knot.

"Stop, don't do it like that," reprimanded her sister, sitting up and reaching for a mother-of-pearl inlaid brush, a gift from Grandmother Irma, before turning Andromeda around so as to run the bristles through her hair.

"You were the prettiest witch there, Cissa," noted Andromeda ruefully. "Even Lucius Malfoy couldn't keep his eyes off you."

Cissa's gentle brushstrokes stilled momentarily, "We only danced twice." If Andromeda didn't know better, she'd think her sister was pouting.

Andromeda snorted: "He would have asked for a third if his mother didn't keep him on such a tight leash. Besides, you certainly weren't wanting for partners—Alexander Montague seemed very determined on getting that second dance."

"Montague's great-grandmother was a half-blood," said Cissa dismissively, yet she refused to elaborate more on Malfoy.

"What about you, 'Meda?" she continued, putting away the brush and beginning to weave the curls into loose braids. "After Bella marries next Beltane, you'll be free to make whichever announcement you'd like."

 _"If_ Bella marries next Beltane, then I guess we'll see. For all of our sakes, let's just hope Mr Rodolphus doesn't bore her anytime soon," warned Andromeda darkly.

"You always think the worst of Bella," Cissa rebuked mildly, a long-running argument.

"Fine," huffed Andromeda, rolling her eyes. "If they keep discovering shared interests like they did tonight, then maybe we'll have a nephew by next year's Yuletide."

Andromeda jolted as Cissa tugged a bit sharper than was necessary.

"Do you think…" she hesitated, much as Cissa always did when afraid to appear naive, "that the Ministry could lock her away for tonight?"

"You know what Great-grandmother Violetta says: Muggle-baiting is hardly worth a trip to Azkaban," reassured Andromeda, not entirely certain that was actually the case. "In any case, the head of the DMLE is a Yaxley by his mother's side. Father won't let him do anything to Bella."

It was the way their world turned: through small favours for family and friends, sorting out sticky situations with enough Galleons to grease the wheels. In any case, Cissa appeared to be sufficiently mollified.

"There," she declared, tying a bit of pink ribbon at the end of the braid, and Andromeda turned to face her.

"You know," Cissa continued, avoiding eye-contact as she climbed back under the covers. "If Ellis Rosier were just a few years older, you could be engaged by next summer. Though you two could always wait, if you'd like."

"Ellis Rosier?" squawked Andromeda unattractively, pulling at the covers to reveal Cissa's amused expression. "Whatever happened to Mr Rabastan? Everybody else is so keen on him for me."

Since a grimace was too unladylike, Cissa's nose crinkled daintily instead. "He's… _fine._ I mean, Bella and Mr Rodolphus are well-suited, they're both—"

"Bloodthirsty loons," interjected Andromeda and yelped when Cissa pinched her side.

"They're both very _intense,"_ Cissa corrected, frowning. "But I do think one Lestrange boy is enough for this family."

Andromeda stifled her snicker.

For her sister, such vague disapproval was the equivalent of shouting from the rooftops that under no circumstances did she want Rabastan Lestrange as a brother. Good—Andromeda would need an ally on that battlefield, whenever the time came. That did not mean, however, she was all that interested in shifting her attentions toward anyone else, let alone her second cousin Ellis.

Silence fell between them as the minutes waiting for Bella to return slowly transformed into hours. Though Cissa gratefully accepted the potion-laced hot cocoa when Memsie's quiet knock came, Andromeda stayed awake, focused on the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the corridor.

Andromeda couldn't sleep, but she also didn't want to.

How could she? Well, if completely honest, Andromeda had always suspected Bella had an incredible capacity for cruelty. Her older sister's preferred childhood games were always unkind: she had a flair for jinxes and hexes that were too nasty to be truly playful. But Father and Mother had always kept Bella on a short leash, ensuring she toed the line of propriety—if not for herself, then for the sake of the Black family reputation.

But that night, Andromeda had seen something in her sister's dark, wild-eyed gaze. Something had broken free inside of Bella, snapping the chords of her sister's self-restraint, and raging like Fiendfyre in the dark.

As the hours crept on, Andromeda waited and listened. Small birds flitted outside her window, chirping in the twilight hour before the sun fully peaked over the horizon. Late summer breezes rustled the branches outside her window. Somewhere downstairs, Memsie's footsteps padded across the morning room rugs.

Not long after the grandfather clock struck six, there was a ruckus in the corridor outside Andromeda's bedroom door. Angry voices drifted down the hall: Father's warnings, low-pitched and unforgiving, and Memsie's berating, high-pitched and admonishing. Bella's shrieked laughter cut through their rebukes as she evaded their attempts to shepherd her to bed, the heels of her boots clicking rapidly on the marble floors.

With a sharp rattle, the silver knob on Andromeda's door turned and a head of wild curls poked inside. Dark eyes shining and cheeks flushed sunset, Bella looked oddly lovely, even if her hair would be hell to detangle in the morning and the ivory lace on her robes was torn and singed in places.

"Bellatrix!" Father protested gruffly, unseen.

"Trouble sleeping, little sister?" Bella cooed, eyes glittering with amusement

Andromeda remained impassive, knowing better than to feed her excitement.

"I hope you were impressed, Bast wanted to dedicate that little show just to you," Bella snickered, her full wine-stained mouth curled into a mocking smile. "He's really very sweet on you, Andy darling."

Andromeda kept her eyes trained on a portrait of her great-great-aunt, Elladora Black, who snored softly from the corner of the room.

"Sweet dreams," Bella whispered saccharinely, before Father pulled her out of the doorway.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Deep long breaths, just like Memsie had taught her to do as a child. It had been so long since Andromeda had felt like this—this off-centre, off-balance. Wrapping slender arms around her fluffiest pillow, Andromeda tightened her grip until it felt as if she'd almost strangled the feathers out of the poor cushion.

If she didn't move, if she didn't blink, if she just kept very still and held herself together, then Andromeda could pretend that Bella's unspoken threat didn't really frighten her.

* * *

 **Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London**

 ** _Lughnasadh_ , August 1, 1999**

The first time Narcissa Malfoy crossed the threshold of Number 12, Grimmauld Place—after having spent over a decade shamelessly avoiding the drafty old mausoleum—she was startled by a hunched little figure who threw itself at her feet. Before either Harry or Hermione could prevent the spectacle, a wailing Kreacher dove on to the black-and-white checkered marble floor and reverently pressed damp kisses into the hemline of Cissa's grey robes. "Missy Narcissa!" the house-elf cried plaintively, wrinkled little face crumpled with emotion, as the entire party in entrance hall watched in horrified silence.

"There, there," Cissa consoled stiffly, patting the bald top of Kreacher's head.

Andromeda fought the wild urge to laugh. Instead, she couldn't help taking a step back, uncertain as to whether Kreacher's lips would also be taking a liking to her new dragon-hide boots, and greeted above the commotion, "Harry, Miss Granger, so lovely to see you."

It took Harry issuing a rare order for Kreacher to get off his knees, though the faithful house-elf's eyes suspiciously watered as he hobbled away to prepare to tea for his honoured guest.

"The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has returned," Kreacher wheezed as he shuffled past.

"Sorry 'bout that," Harry muttered, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

With Kreacher out of the way, Cissa finally had a moment to appreciate her surroundings, sweeping her critical gaze over the entrance hall's new bright and clean interior.

"It's unrecognizable," breathed Cissa, just short of outright praise.

Unrecognizable was quite the understatement. As far as Andromeda was concerned, the Granger girl had worked nothing short of miracles in turning what was left of Walburga's townhouse fortress into an inhabitable and welcoming home.

Gone were cobwebbed chandeliers, the dusty velvet curtains, the moulding carpets and the rotting peeling wallpaper. Upon returning from her eighth year at Hogwarts, Miss Granger had been given free rein to redecorate the house in pale ivories and muted gold touches, restoring the mahogany floors, and polishing the marble accents. It was an ambitious project, one that had taken most of the summer to complete even with magic. More than a few nights had Andromeda Floo-called only to discover Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley boys had fallen asleep amidst paint cans and wallpaper adhesive.

Sometimes Andromeda slept very easy at night, knowing that Walburga's entire bedroom set had been replaced with a rather tasteful and thrifty collection from Ikea.

The odd party was quickly ushered into the drawing-room, which barely resembled the foreboding splendour Andromeda had known in her youth. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the sparkling floor-to-ceiling windows and reflected off the striped eggshell silk wallhangings by the whitewashed fireplace, where Aunt Walburga's beloved floral chintz chair had been reupholstered in dark emerald satin.

"She's probably rolling in her grave," murmured Cissa in quiet awe.

However, still in pride of place was the threadbare Black family tapestry, its enchanted gold weave beginning to fade. Miss Granger had yet to devise a way to remove it without causing its destruction, especially considering that Kreacher tended to burst into tears whenever Harry offered to blast it into smithereens.

"Is it to your liking?" asked Miss Granger, gnawing nervously on her bottom lip.

Throughout the arduous renovation, the Muggle-born witch had extensively consulted Andromeda over what to discard and retain from the Black legacy at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Though Andromeda had personally advocated burning the structure to the ground and starting anew, Miss Granger had successfully argued that the house's peculiar legacy—from pure-blood fanaticism to rebellion headquarters—merited some kind of physical homage.

Personally, Andromeda suspected that Miss Granger had also refused to let the Potter boy continue living in a rotting, moulding mausoleum of a house.

"Maybe Kreacher would like to keep the tapestry for himself?" suggested Cissa delicately. "I'm sure he would cherish it."

Miss Granger beamed, clearly fond of the little elf.

Standing in front of Aunt Walburga's most prized possession, none of the afternoon's little ironies were lost on Andromeda. Although she and Cissa were the only ones whose names featured on that dreadful tapestry, it was the half-blood Potter boy and his Muggle-born best friend who were playing hosts. Had Walburga known what would become of her beloved family home, she would have razed it to the ground as her funeral pyre—with Kreacher still inside.

As the silence stretched uncomfortably between the guests, both witches pretended not to notice Miss Granger discreetly elbowing Harry in the ribcage, startling the boy into remembering his manners. "Oh, err, please sit down Mrs Tonks, Mrs Malfoy," he offered, pointing to a plush loveseat by the fireplace. "Mrs Longbottom Floo-ed to say the other ladies would be here soon. Let me go see if Kreacher needs some help."

Harry left the room as quickly as possible, still not quite comfortable with playing the master of the house.

"Thank you for letting us host the Ladies' Society tea here, Miss Granger," interjected Andromeda after the wizened house-elf reappeared, bearing a tray laden with a mountain of hot scones and delicately-arranged petit-fours.

"It's no trouble at all," Miss Granger dismissed politely, as Kreacher went about serving their tea. "Please enjoy the refreshments. Kreacher made these biscuits especially for you, Mrs Malfoy."

Seated primly beside Andromeda, Cissa eyed the young woman speculatively. Her sister had expressed a certain interest in the Muggle-born witch, who'd featured repeatedly in many of her nephew's letters over their time spent together at Hogwarts.

According to Narcissa, Draco had often written home bemoaning that the young witch, despite being raised unaware of her magical prowess, had consistently outscored him in every single one of their classes. To add insult to injury, as a member of the Golden Trio, they embarked on annual hare-brained adventures that rarely lost Gryffindor enough points to actually sacrifice the House Cup. In their third year, Miss Granger had even once punched Draco in the nose for being a rude little brat—though Narcissa maintained the violence was undeserved, Andromeda now felt she knew her nephew's moods enough to know better.

"He had such a fine, aristocratic nose before that," Narcissa had insisted, visibly put out by Andromeda's laughter. "Now it looks so… _common."_

Draco Malfoy's peasant nose notwithstanding, Hermione Granger was a witch who had every reason to despise her current guest, having been the object of the Malfoys' scorn and derision for years, as well as subject to torture while captive under their roof.

And yet, for reasons Cissa could not understand and Andromeda thought not her place to explain, Miss Granger's moral compass had dictated that she not only defend the Malfoys' right to a fair trial to the best of her ability, but the young witch had also done so with a tenacity Andromeda found admirable. Even after her fifty-page tome on the Wizengamot's failings in imparting with transitional justice was essentially denied without review by the court itself, an undaunted Hermione had relentlessly drilled Harry into giving a flawless testimony that effectively won Draco his trial.

Twenty-something years ago, Narcissa Black would have benefitted from Hermione's help with no gratitude whatsoever, considering it reflective of their respective stations in life.

Now, however, Narcissa Malfoy—forced to reassess all she'd been raised to hold sacred and hallowed—was under the uncomfortable impression that she was indebted not only to Harry, but also his Muggle-born friend. It was a humbling realization, one that had induced Narcissa to accept Hermione's generous offer to hold this particular session of the Fundraising Committee's weekly tea at Grimmauld Place.

Using only her forefinger and thumb to swirl the teaspoon in the porcelain cup, Cissa looked up thoughtfully. "It has come to my attention, Miss Granger, that you have gone to great trouble for my family over the past year, when we…," her sister trailed off, hesitant. "When we have not done much to deserve it all. I would like to extend our gratitude on their behalf."

Some might have considered this to be an understated, even insufficient, apology for the abuse Miss Granger had suffered at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange at Malfoy Manor. Indeed, Cissa remained composed, voice relatively quiet and steady, not even a tear shed. When Draco had been told of their afternoon excursion, he'd laid out in no uncertain terms that he did not believe any apology would mend that bridge, let alone ingratiate his mother with "Saint Potter" and his Muggle-born witch.

But Andromeda knew her nephew to be a pessimist at best. The past year had taught her many lessons about the complexity of pain, the non-linear process of grieving, and even the surprising nature of forgiveness.

Miss Granger, who always held herself impeccably straight, glanced down at the teacup she clasped tightly in her hands. The long sleeves of her blue button-up shirt obscured the graphic lettering deliberately carved into her forearm.

"I don't have much family anymore, Mrs Malfoy," she admitted. Misty brown eyes turned to face them. "You might not have protected me, but you inadvertently protected the loved ones I have left. What I did…" Miss Granger smiled ruefully, "consider that a debt repaid."

Harry's dishevelled dark head poked inside: "Mione, I think the rest of them will be here soon. Where should I put them?"

Rolling her eyes and shrugging off the sombre mood, Miss Granger rebuked the young Potter, "Put them? Harry, they're ladies, not packages. Have Kreacher take their cloaks and bring them here, of course."

Even when berating her best friend, Miss Granger's bemused expression was fond, even sisterly. To be frank, Andromeda appreciated the girl's protective behaviour over the Boy-Who-Lived, the young man who'd come to fill a hollow left by her absent family. From viciously fending off reporters in one moment to berating Harry for not folding his clothes in the next, Andromeda found Miss Granger's fiercely protective mannerisms endearing, to say the least.

In preparation for the onslaught of society matrons, Kreacher reappeared with another silver serving tray loaded high with baked delicacies and tiny finger sandwiches, porcelain tea set hovering behind him. Considering the already expansive spread arranged before them, Andromeda suspected Kreacher was seeking to woo Narcissa through the sheer volume of his baking.

At the sight of a precariously perched saucer, teetering at the edge of the tray, Miss Granger offered kindly, "Kreacher, would you like help in bringing in the rest of the tea service?"

Were his wrinkled cheeks still capable, Andromeda was certain Kreacher would have flushed red with embarrassment. As it were, his foggy eyes swivelled nervously toward the Black sisters before quickly hobbling out of the room.

Over the rims of their teacups, the sisters exchanged pointed glances, with Andromeda losing the silent battle of wills: "Miss Granger dear, I know you mean well, but house-elves will take offence to those offers."

Pink bloomed against the brown of Miss Granger's cheekbones: "I only wanted to help."

"What my sister should explain, Miss Granger, is that such well-meaning offers—especially as Mr Potter's cherished friend—will insinuate that Kreacher's services are no longer required," elaborated Cissa.

Miss Granger shuddered, seemingly at the reminder of the beheaded house-elves, all of whom had been relocated to a makeshift graveyard in the back garden. "Thank you, Mrs Malfoy, I'll be sure to keep that in mind," she said politely, when Andromeda had been half-expecting another speech on the house-elf liberation movement.

Forging ahead with the conversation, Cissa queried, "Will you be joining us for tea, Miss Granger? I understand the Ladies' Society has already extended their invitations to your graduating class."

"Hermione has refused our offer, for the time being," Andromeda revealed, bearing the girl no ill will.

"I've been offered quite a few apprenticeships," Hermione explained, a bit sheepish about her success. "Some of the Charms masters brought in to help restore Hogwarts were interested in my work."

"Apprenticeships?" Cissa raised a quizzical brow. "I would not have suspected you had such a thirst for academia."

Miss Granger flushed. "I applied to the Wizengamot apprenticeships, but it was made apparent to me that my contributions were undesired."

"I see," Cissa took a dainty sip of warm tea.

Andromeda could already see the cogs turning in her sister's mind. Clearly, both of the Black sisters thought Miss Granger's ambition would be wasted if she spent her youth holed up in a dusty classroom, under the tutelage of some grey-haired maestro with little power or influence beyond their books. While the Muggle-born witch had already declared her actions to be a debt repaid, the Andromeda knew better—if Narcissa Black had any strings left to pull, she would use those connections to place Miss Granger in a position better suited to her potential.

"You're welcome to join us whenever you please, Miss Granger," offered Andromeda, keen to diffuse the girl's awkwardness. "I believe Miss Susan Bones has already accepted, as well as a Miss Luna Lovegood."

Miss Granger's mouth twisted strangely, as if holding back laughter. "Luna?" she asked, incredulous. "In a Ladies' Society?"

Andromeda frowned, "She came highly recommended by Madame Longbottom's grandson."

"I think I better stay for tea," agreed Miss Granger.

—/—

Considering its historic ties to the Black family, Grimmauld Place had gained certain notoriety among the wizarding public after Rita Skeeter's tell-all exclusive piece on the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. The townhouse's existence had been the only detail she'd gotten right in the rubbish article, which had mostly speculated about a tempestuous love affair between Remus, a penniless werewolf, and Sirius, the disgraced Black heir. Though its location remained unplottable, most were aware that Harry Potter had retreated to the privacy of his godfather's childhood home to escape the relentless press attention. So, when members of the Ladies' Society were extended invitations for tea, most had eagerly accepted, their natural curiosity overpowering their disdain for the Black family reputation.

"Not at all like I remembered it," declared Madame Longbottom, one of the few who had visited during Walburga's lifetime. Though the Longbottom line fell under Callidora Black's name, Andromeda eyed the extensive tapestry and located Melania Black (née Macmillan), Augusta's beloved aunt. "Quite the improvement, Miss Granger."

As the other ladies trailed inside, they made similar favourable remarks on the extensive renovations, despite never having seen the original edifice.

"Is that a first edition copy of _A Potioneer's Guide to Rare Magical Brews and Elixirs?"_ wondered Solomina Diggory when shown the library, having arrived promptly before anyone else. Before becoming Amos Diggory's wife, Solomina Morgenstern had worked as a bookkeeper at her family's centuries-old store, Flourish and Blotts, and now served as the Fundraising Committee's treasurer.

Though Mrs Diggory hid her eagle-eyed appraisal well, Andromeda could tell her mercenary mind was already estimating how much the Black family library would earn at an auction.

Miss Jocelyn Fawcett had similarly eyed the glittering crystal chandelier in the dining hall with shrewd interest: "My great-grandfather's handiwork, I suppose. We haven't worked on chandeliers in a few decades, but we would make an exception for you, Mr Potter."

"Do I detect nutmeg in these biscuits?" queried Felicity Bones, a proud home-baker who'd attempted to snoop in the kitchens before Kreacher had politely escorted her to the drawing-room. "Absolutely scrumptious."

"Cinnamon," remarked Andromeda, drily.

"How delightful," agreed Madame Bones brightly, a round-cheeked witch who possessed neither the wit nor the brains of her late and brilliant sister-in-law. She was, however, an uncommonly kind soul, and had been the only one to greet Cissa with any degree of warmth.

Her daughter, Miss Susan Bones, wore her blonde hair in a short, blunt bob, reminiscent of her Aunt Amelia, and nodded politely upon introduction. There was a steely look about the Hufflepuff girl that Andromeda appreciated, and she was unsurprised to discover Miss Bones would also be joining the new Auror recruits.

"What a beautiful home you have, Harry," sighed a blonde waif trailing in the shadow of Madame Longbottom's avian headwear, her luminous silver eyes roving curiously over the surroundings. "Such a shame about the Blibbering Humdingers in the curtains. You can lure them outside with the smell of dirty laundry, they're quite fond of old socks you know."

"Thanks, Luna," replied Harry with fond amusement. "You can come help with that, if you'd like."

Miss Luna Lovegood beamed, lighting up like the summery yellow frock she wore. Cornflower blue cartoon eyes dotted the hemline and cuffs, swivelling in excitement, and a pair of feathery earring brushed the tops of her pale shoulders. With her wand tucked behind her left ear, it was certainly the most interesting getup Andromeda had ever seen—and she'd been a mother to Nymphadora.

"Oh, hello Madame Malfoy. Your home is quite lovely too," complimented Miss Lovegood pleasantly, and Andromeda failed to detect any hint of sarcasm. "I'm sorry to say the cellars were a bit damp, but I made some good friends there."

"Miss Lovegood." If Narcissa could appear abashed, this was the closest Andromeda had ever witnessed, with her sister clearly searching for the appropriate words.

Downstairs, a ringing doorbell announced the final addition to their group, and Harry made a swift exit to avoid the quiet tension that descended upon the ladies. Though Madame Bones still maintained her sympathetic expression, both Miss Fawcett and Mrs Diggory's demeanour had turned glacial. As Miss Lovegood's sponsor, Madame Longbottom appeared ready to do battle for her foundling.

"I wonder…" continued the blonde witch serenely, seemingly unaware of how many wounds had reopened at the reminder of her capture and imprisonment. "Draco brought us a very nice Yule pudding once, Mr Ollivander really enjoyed it. Only the leftovers, of course. Would you happen to know the recipe?"

"Draco?" wondered Miss Granger out loud. "Luna, since when are you on a first-name basis with Malfoy?"

Continuing in that breathy tone, Miss Lovegood revealed offhandedly: "We correspond. I write to him, occasionally he writes back. Owl post is very efficient nowadays, now that the office is run by actual wizards and witches."

"As opposed to…?" wondered Miss Granger, but Madame Longbottom shook her head to dissuade that line of questioning.

Miss Lovegood only smiled in response.

"Miss Lovegood, I was not aware you are friendly with my son," Narcissa let out the tiniest exhale of relief. "You're more than welcome to—"

The drawing-room door swung open for a final time, letting in the last two arrivals.

"I do hope we're not too late, Melina was having a spot of trouble with her Floo."

Both Black sisters turned to greet the elegant figure who swanned into the room, every bit as fashionable as she'd been twenty years prior. Despite the midnight hair turning a lustrous silver, Lucretia Prewett looked just as graceful in her sharply-cut burgundy robes as she had during their youth. Behind her strode in a small, stocky woman, whose conservative robes did nothing to hide the appearance of densely packed muscle on her elderly frame.

"Aunt Lucretia?" queried Narcissa, eyes wide with surprise. "I thought you were…"

"Dead? Old Wally always hoped I would croak before she did," chuckled Aunt Lucretia, swooping in to press a warm kiss against each of Andromeda's cheeks before rounding on her other niece.

"Now, Miss Narcissa Black, exactly how long has it been?"

* * *

 **Hogwarts Express, Somewhere in Great Britain**

 **September 1, 1970**

"Mother thinks it's disgraceful, that's what she called it," declared Amaryllis Carrow for the third time in a row since the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express had pulled away from the platform. Dreary rain splattered against the window, dense fog obscuring the rolling green hills of the British countryside outside.

As seventh-years, Andromeda and her cohort had laid claim to the most comfortable compartment in the third carriage—uncharitably referred to by some as the 'viper's nest'. Although Andromeda would soon have to report to the prefect's carriage for their first meeting of the year, she had been keen to reunite with her friends for at least the first thirty minutes of the train ride. Most of that time had been monopolized by their diminutive friend, who'd insisted on dissecting every little piece of summer holiday gossip she'd been able to unearth while separated.

Imogen Selwyn rolled her eyes in disgust, lounging with her head tilted back against the windowpane. "Can we please change the subject?" she implored. "The old bat's dead, let her rest in peace."

Amaryllis turned her pert nose up at Imogen: "Of course _you_ wouldn't care. Everyone knows how your family felt about old Madame Malfoy."

The recently departed Madame Malfoy, née Cerridwyn Selwyn, had infamously taken the news of her nephew's marriage to a Hong Kong banking heiress quite poorly. When the old witch was suddenly taken gravely ill with spattergroit at the beginning of June, Imogen's father Cuthbert had scheduled a family pilgrimage to Asia to pay his respects to his wife's ancestors.

Tossing back a sheet of glossy black hair over one shoulder, Imogen raised a perfectly-groomed straight brow in response. "Since when are you Madame Malfoy's biggest fan? It took your mother five years of grovelling to get back on the guestlist for the Yule ball after accidentally serving her scalding hot tea at a Ladies' Society meeting."

Amaryllis flushed, the colour clashing against her jaunty strawberry blonde ponytail.

Seated across from Andromeda, Caitriona Fawley shot her a commiserating smile. Summer break had offered them a brief respite from Amaryllis and Imogen's near-constant sniping, which had begun sometime in their fifth-year and was ongoing ever since.

"I think we can all agree nobody liked old Madame Malfoy very much," conceded Caitrona mildly, ever the peacemaker when Amaryllis was out for blood. "That's not to say the new Madame Malfoy was right to start wearing a dead woman's jewels within the week."

At the Lestrange soirée, eyes had popped at the sight of the Malfoy party, who'd arrived in their usual calculated show of splendour. Since Mrs Malfoy's mother-in-law had passed away only a month prior and no other female relatives were alive to claim the title of Matriarch, Cecily Malfoy (née Travers) became the first inductee of her generation into the 'Madame' club. To celebrate the occasion, Lucius' mother had taken the opportunity to display her new title by arriving in floating blue robes of silk and organza, with an eye-watering rope of diamonds wound snugly around her neck.

If the late Madame Malfoy hadn't been such a notorious bitch, it would have been in very poor taste to forego mourning so soon.

"Speaking of jewels," continued Amaryllis, turning towards Andromeda like a bloodhound following a scent. "What do you think Rabastan Lestrange will give you as a betrothal piece, if Bellatrix is already wearing his mother's necklace?"

Andromeda nearly groaned in despair.

Amaryllis scoffed, "Don't act so surprised, I was invited to that party too, you know. Madame Crouch was telling my mother that he's absolutely gone on you."

"If Mr Rabastan had any intentions of proposing, I'd be the first to know, Amaryllis," returned Andromeda, the barest hint of steel in her voice. "Not you, and certainly not your mother."

"But, well, has there been an informal arrangement between you two?" asked Caitriona, hesitant.

"There is no understanding between myself and Mr Rabastan," she asserted, careful to disguise her disgust. If Amaryllis reported that back to her mother, Andromeda would be receiving more than a few strongly-worded letters by next Friday.

As it was, Andromeda's final year at Hogwarts and impending social season already had her parents on edge. Breakfast that morning had been spent listening to Father lecture her on the importance of behaving like a witch of good breeding, as if she were somehow going to lose her head like some common twit. All the while Bellatrix smirked in the background, fingering her enchanted choker with a knowing gaze.

"That's not what Mr Rabastan told my brother last week," revealed Imogen, looking at Andromeda with keen interest. "Or what Mr Lestrange told my father."

"They must have meant my sister then," Andromeda insisted.

"It wasn't Bellatrix he asked to dance at his party," retorted Amaryllis, eyes narrowed. "Twice."

"Were you so lacking in partners that you needed to keep track of mine?" snarked Andromeda.

The other three witches exchanged loaded looks, which she resolutely ignored.

"If Andromeda says there's nothing between her and Mr Rabastan, then there isn't," declared Caitriona, blue eyes sympathetic.

"Thank you," replied Andromeda tersely. "I'll see you lot later."

Standing up and pinning a freshly-polished Slytherin prefect badge to the left lapel of her robes, Andromeda nearly slammed the compartment door behind her as she left. Walking down the length of the train towards the prefect carriage, younger students made themselves scarce at the sight of her thunderous expression. On rare occasions, Andromeda's uncanny resemblance to her older sister came in handy.

"Who put a Hungarian Horntail down your knickers?" taunted a masculine voice behind her.

Irked at the nerve of the boy, Andromeda rounded to face Ellis Rosier, whose own silver badge gleamed proudly on his chest.

"I wouldn't sleep so easy at night if I were you," greeted Andromeda, smoothing over features into something more pleasant. "Crossing a Black witch."

Ellis pouted, letting a rakish lock of golden hair fall forward. "You hurt me. I thought I did you a service."

Together, the cousins reached the door to the prefect's carriage, behind which a low drum of voices indicated the meeting was about to begin. Letting Ellis reach forward and slide the door open for her, Andromeda shot him a foreboding smile over her shoulder as she passed.

"You did do me a service, dear cousin. And won't I enjoy returning the favour?" she promised.

Although Ellis smirked in return, his step had visibly lost some of its previous swagger.

"Black, Rosier, finally, take a seat," barked Malcolm Hughes, a stocky seventh-year Hufflepuff and their new Head Boy. Standing at the front of the carriage, he was accompanied by his counterpart, Susana Clearwater, from Ravenclaw and a notorious teacher's pet.

"Shame you didn't get it," whispered Ellis as he clapped a hand on Lucius Malfoy's shoulder, taking his seat amongst his fellow Slytherins. Even though Daisy Flint, a fifth-year and one of her sister's loyal followers, looked up at Andromeda hopefully, she chose to slide into a chair beside Madeline Urquhart. The sixth-year girl nodded curtly in greeting, their group falling silent as Clearwater rapped her knuckles against a table and proceedings began.

Thankfully, neither Hughes nor Clearwater was as verbose as Warrington and Fawcett had been the year before. Despite his family's many political connections, Warrington had lacked the necessary common sense to know when to shut up. Instead, the new Head Girl and Boy were concise, prepared, and efficient, having already set out patrol rotations for the train ride, as well as designated partners for the first half of term.

"We've already made sure these don't clash with your class schedules. Mind none of your other extracurricular activities interfere, we won't be as accommodating as our predecessors," instructed Clearwater, eyes hard behind her oversized cat-eye glasses.

"Especially athletes," added Hughes.

Low murmurs rippled through the crowd. As a Slytherin Chaser, Malfoy scowled—Warrington had been infamous for setting aside Head duties in favour of captaining the Slytherin Quidditch team, a practice which had apparently been taken into consideration when selecting his successor.

A few other prefects grumbled when the timetables were passed out, some even groaning out loud at Clearwater and Hughes' distribution of rounds.

"Quiet! Remember who chose you for this responsibility," called out Clearwater, ever the drill sergeant.

Andromeda accepted her schedule from Daisy with a brief thanks.

"Tonks? Who in Circe's name is Edward Tonks?" Andromeda wondered in a whisper, and Madeline shrugged in response. Her housemates looked similarly consternated with their pairings, with Ellis already audibly complaining about being assigned to Frank Longbottom, a Gryffindor fifth-year.

The hard little **'7H'** beside his name indicated Edwards Tonks was a seventh-year Hufflepuff. Unlike the Slytherins and Ravenclaws, the other two Houses sat in an evenly mixed group, leaving Andromeda to only guess at the identity of her patrol partner. In their earlier years of schooling, they'd had few classes with Hufflepuff to begin with, and even less after taking her OWLs. Considering she'd escaped the possibility of being paired with Malfoy or worse, some loudmouthed Gryffindor, putting up with a nameless nobody Puff until Yule break seemed feasible.

Hughes continued over the room's displeasure: "Fifth-year prefects, remember you must escort the first-years to your respective common rooms tonight. Have an older prefect from your House help you prepare some words of welcome—"

"Nothing rude or obscene, please," called out Clearwater, some of the Gryffindor boys snickering behind her back.

"—and make sure to introduce yourself to your patrol partner before you leave. We've been nice enough to let you do rounds with your housemates on the train, but after tonight there'll be no switching partners. Bathroom password for the month is _'squeaky clean'_ and always ask Boris if someone is inside before you barge in. See you in two weeks, Monday at nine o'clock. Meeting adjourned."

Chairs and tables shuffled on the carpet as students rose to their feet, the room now buzzing with conversation. Immediately, Daisy Flint turned her pathetic puppy-dog eyes on Andromeda, ready to set off together for their round of patrolling on the Hogwarts Express.

"Just one second," Andromeda instructed curtly, leaving the girl to wait while she scanned the room's occupants for a face that could resemble an 'Edward Tonks'.

Common Muggle name, most likely. She'd never heard of a half-blood Tonks, let alone a pure-blood, and Grandmother Irma had relentlessly drilled her on multiple wizarding lineages from the time she could read the names on the Black family tapestry.

"Uh, excuse me," interrupted a masculine, friendly voice from somewhere behind her, tapping her lightly on the side of her arm. "Andromeda Black, right?"

Andromeda turned to meet partner, and then immediately had to crane her neck to look up.

For a split second, it seemed absurd that it had been so easy for her to overlook someone who appeared to take up so much space.

"Edward Tonks?" she asked in confirmation.

The Hufflepuff prefect grimaced, "Name's Ted, if you don't mind."

'Call me Ted' Tonks was a broad-shouldered, strapping young man of seventeen, standing nearly a foot taller than Andromeda herself. Had he introduced himself as a farmer or some other menial labourer, she would have been unsurprised due to his muscled frame and rough-knuckled hands. Under his thatch of dark blond hair, Tonks wore a congenial expression across his tanned features, freckles stretching across the bridge of his nose as he offered her a dimpled smile.

Feeling strangely discomfited, Andromeda crossed her arms and frowned. "What if I call you 'Tonks' instead?"

That broad, dimpled grin faltered and something inside Andromeda's stomach twisted.

"Oh that's alright too, I guess," he agreed readily, looking more awkward than a boy his size should. "I just wanted to check if you were okay with meeting outside the Great Hall for rounds—I already talked to Rob and Sally and they don't mind."

'Rob and Sally', Andromeda gathered, were Robert Wood and Sally Flowers-Flannigan, of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff respectively, and the other two prefects who would be accompanying them on their rounds.

"Sure," agreed Andromeda reluctantly, still frowning and not sure why. It wasn't as if she had anything against meeting by the Great Hall, though somewhere more centrally-located would have been more convenient.

"Ted, let's go!" called a girlish voice, and Andromeda could see Sally's double-plaited orange head bouncing by the door at the other end of the room. Around them, the carriage had slowly emptied as students set off on their rounds. Only a few stragglers remained, including a patiently waiting Daisy Flint, who sat primly by the opposite door.

"Alright, see you Tuesday then?" asked Tonks, already beginning to retreat towards his friends.

Andromeda nodded in agreement, "Tuesday," before swiftly turning on her heels and rejoining her patrol partner.

The rest of her train ride would be spent quietly ruminating on the many flaws of Hufflepuff boys with crooked noses and dimpled cheeks, while Daisy pestered her with questions about Cissa and her supposed secret betrothal to Lucius Malfoy.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Thank you once again for reading! As always, I greatly appreciate any comments and feedback. Chapter three is currently underway and most of the story is plotted out already. Stay safe and healthy everyone!


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